UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


TALES 


SOU  V  E  N  I  R  S 


RESIDENCE  IN  EUROPE, 


BY  A  LADY  OF  VIRGINIA. 


Ami, 

De  ce  sommet  qui  nous  rassemble, 

Viens,  jetons  un  regard  ensemble 

sur  le  passe. 

LAMARTINB. 


J.464     10 


PHILADELPHIA: 

LEA    &   BLANCHARD 
1842. 


Entered  according  to  the  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1841,  by  LEA  &,  BLANCH ARD, 
in  the  office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of  Penn- 
sylvania. 


T.  K.  &  P.  G.  COLLINS,  PRINTERS, 
No.  1  Lodge  Alley. 


t 


CONTENTS. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS.  PAGE 

A  SKETCH  FROM  CARISBROOK  CASTLE,  9 

MYSTERIOUS  WARNINGS,        ------      22 

A  REVELATION,     -- 32 

VERSAILLES,  ---------43 

A  VISION,     ---------53 

THE  MINSTREL, 63 

A  DECLARATION,    --------70 

SURPRISES,     --- 84 

A  COURT  BALL,    --------96 

THE  LAST  HOUR, 110 

A  DISAPPOINTMENT,      -------    123 

THE  CHIEFTAIN,    --------     136 

PENSEES,       -.------_     150 

A  CATASTROPHE,  --------     156 

CONCLUSION,          .-.-....     164 

FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

CHAMOUNI,    -        -        ...        -        -        -        -        -  167 

THE  MER  DE  GLACE,     -------  172 

THE  COL  DE  BALM,       -        -        -  -        -  176 

MONT  ST.  BERNARD,     -------  180 

THE  CITE  D'AosT,        -------  187 

THE  VALLEE  D'AosT, 190 

AN  ALPINE  STORM,       - 192 

PIVARONE,     ---------  193 

THE  CHEVALIER  LEONE,        .._--.  195 


iv  CONTENTS. 

THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE— A  TALE.  PAOE 

LOMBARDY,    -------__  231 

AN  ITALIAN  SUNSET, 333 

THE  RIGHT, 234 

THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU-A  TALE,        -        -        -  241 

A  BALLAD,        -        |    /- '    ***  >  (                             -  294 


PREFACE. 


"  THE  gratification  of  friends,"  must  once  more  serve  as 
an  apology  for  permitting  the  following  "  Souvenirs,"  or 
rather  sketches,  to  see  the  light. 

Extracted  as  they  are,  for  the  most  part,  from  a  Journal, 
undertaken  solely  for  the  entertainment  of  one,  whose  kind 
indulgence,  it  was  well  known,  would  overlook  all  faults, 
and  embodied  in  their  present  form  only  to  beguile  a  solitary 
hour,  or  to  amuse  a  fire-side  circle,  they  might,  doubtless, 
in  the  eye  of  criticism,  be  liable  to  the  charge  of  both 
negligence  and  egotism,  especially  where  the  Journal  is  left 
as  it  was  originally  written.  It  was  found,  however,  that 
a  suppression  of  the  personal  pronoun,  and,  indeed,  any 
attempt  at  improvement,  would  only  have  the  effect  of  sub- 
stituting the  tedious  formality  of  a  guide  du  voyageur,  for 
the  careless  ease  of  familiar  correspondence. 

The  "  Tale  of  our  Ancestors,"  which  might,  with  some 
propriety,  be  numbered  among  the  "  Tales  of  a  grand- 
father" is  interwoven  with  a  manuscript  narrative  in  pos- 
session of  the  writer,  which  bears  a  date  of  some  eighty 


vi  PREFACE. 

years  since,  and  which  gives  a  far  more  interesting  account 
of  the  Indian  Chieftain,  Logan,  and  the  young  warrior, 
Allanawissca,  than  romance  itself  could  produce.  The 
first  part  of  the  story  derives,  from  some  historical  remi- 
niscences of  the  gaudy  court  of  Louis  Quinze  whatever 
attraction  it  may  present;  and  the  whole  of  this  story,  as 
•well  as  the  "  Soldier's  Bride,"  and  the  "  Valle.y  of  Goldau," 
may  claim  at  least  one  merit — that  of  being  founded  on 
truth. 

The  imitation  of  an  old  English  Ballad  is  designed  for 
young  friends,  who  "  sigh  for  Europe,— for  Paris;  and 
there,  or  at  Naples,  would  like  to  end  their  days." 

The  scenes  of  which  a  description  is  attempted  to  be 
given,  both  in  the  Tales,  which  now  form  the  greater  part 
of  these  "  Sketches,"  and  in  the  Journal,  were  hastily 
delineated  at  the  time,  and  frequently  on  the  spot  where 
they  were  witnessed;  and  to  this  alone  may  be  attributed  any 
interest  they  possess; — as  objects,  reflected  in  the  vivacity 
of  their  first  impression  on  the  mind  or  the  senses  through 
a  faithful,  however  imperfect  representation,  have  power  by 
their  own  glowing  beauty,  romantic  wildness,  or  dark 
terrors,  to  impart  a  charm  to  an  unskilled  pencil,  while  an 
elaborate  and  finished  picture,  attempted  by  the  same  hand, 
would  only  betray  the  defects  of  the  artist,  and  place  them 
in  bolder  relief. 

Farther  apology  for  these  "  Souvenirs,"  is  needless,  as 
it  is  not  probable  that  their  merits  will  carry  them  beyond 
the  limited  circle  for  which  they  were  designed.  Such  as 


PREFACE.  vii 

they  are,  "  with  all  their  imperfections,"  they  are  offered 
to  those  kind  friends  who  have  requested  their  appearance, 
as  a  memorial  of  the  affectionate  attachment  and  regard  of 
the  writer. 


A     T  A  L  E 


OUR    ANCESTORS, 


A  SKETCH  FROM  CARISBROOK  CASTLE. 

"  On  sloping  mounds,  or  in  the  vale  beneath, 
Are  domes  where  whilom  kings  did  make  repair; 
But  now  the  wild  flowers  round  them  only  breathe, 
Yet  ruined  splendour  still  is  lingering  there." 

CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

* 

WHO  can  describe  the  thrill  of  delight  that  rushes  to  the 
sinking  heart — the  unwonted  glow  that  animates  once  more 
the  pale  cheek — the  hope  that  again  sparkles  in  the  dimmed 
eye,  when  after  thirty  days  of  unmitigated  suffering  at  sea, 
the  welcome  sound  of  "  Land  ho!"  is  heard  from  the  main 
mast?  Would  it  be  piofanation  to  compare  it  with  the  first 
bright  ray  that  dawns  on  the  blest  soul  when  it  emerges 
from  the  shadow  of  the  dark  valley?  It  may  be  so — yet  such 
was  the  thought  it  awakened  in  the  minds  of  some  of  the 

company  of  the  good  ship when  on  the  morning  of 

the  19th  of  September,  18 — ,  after  a  gloomy,  stormy  night, 
this  joyful  sound  announced  the  view,  though  still  distant, 
of  the  "  white  cliffs  of  Albion." 

The  blue  waves  of  the  yet  heaving  ocean  sparkled  with 
•2 


10  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

sapphire-like  brilliancy  beneath  the  fitful  gleams  of  sunshine 
that  occasionally  shot  through  the  dark  masses  of  clouds 
around  her,  as  the  gallant  frigate  proudly  rode  over  them;  a 
favouring  wind  bore  her  rapidly  onward,  and  ere  the  night 
closed  in,  she  was  safely  anchored  iuher  long  desired  haven, 
near  Cowes,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight. 

If  there  is  a  spot  upon  earth  formed  to  exhilarate  and 
refresh  an  exhausted  being  after  the  fatigues  of  a  sea  voyage, 
it  is  this  lovely  island,  justly  entitled  the  "  Garden  of  Eng- 
land;" and  it  is,  perhaps,  only  under  such  circumstances, 
that  its  charms  can  be  fully  appreciated.  Welcome,  indeed, 
to  the  weary  eye  that  has  long  gazed  listlessly  over  the 
wild  waste  of  trackless  and  tranquil  waters,  or  anxiously 
watched  their  sublimer  aspect  in  the  terrors  of  the  storm,  are 
the  varied  beauties  which  here  meet  it  at  every  turn.  To 
those  who  have  just  escaped  from  such  durance,  there  is  an 
inexpressible  pleasure  in  gliding  rapidly  in  a  little  car  (a 
vehicle  peculiar  to  the  Isle  of  Wight)  over  the  neat  but 
narrow  turnpike  roads,  bordered  by  hawthorn  hedges — 
looking  out  upon  bright  fields  clothed  with  the  richest  and 
most  exquisite  verdure — occasionally  catching  a  glimpse  of 
some  sequestered  cottage,  with  its  miniature  gravel  walks, 
its  clusters  of  myrtle  and  lauristinus,  and  innumerable 
flowers,  which,  at  this  season,  in  the  distant  land  of  the 
traveller,  may  have  bloomed  and  passed  away,  but  which 
here  offer  their  brilliant  tints  and  rich  perfume,  as  if  to 
revive  him,  with  their  freshness  and  fragrance; — while  on 
the  other  hand,  some  proud  castle  rises  in  bold  relief  against 
the  dappled  sky,  with  its  "  towers  and  battlements  bosomed 
high  in  tufted  trees." 

But  to  those  who  had  looked  for  romance  only  in  the 
primeval  forest  or  the  mountain  stream — who  had  beert 
accustomed  to  view  the  reliques  of  other  days  only  through 


CARISBROOK  CASTLE.  H 

the  medium  of  poetry  or  of  fiction,  no  feature  in  the  varied 
and  lovely  scenery  of  the  Isle  of  Wight  presented  such 
attraction  as  the  venerable  ruin  of  Carisbrook  Castle.  There 
was  something  of  marvellous  interest  in  clambering  for  the 
first  time  up  the  long  flight  of  moss-covered  steps  to  the  top 
of  the  donjon  keep,  looking  at  the  over-arching  heavens 
through  a  roof  that  was  once  deemed  strong  enough  to 
shelter  and  secure  a  royal  prisoner,  and  from  this  pictu- 
resque height  watching  the  eiFect  of  the  alternate  sunlight 
and  shade  flitting  over  the  landscape  below,  as  the  fleecy 
clouds  were  driven  by  the  wind  through  the  autumnal  sky, 
now  throwing  a  darker  verdure  over  the  smiling  fields — 
now  gilding  the  spire  of  some  old  gothic  church,  the  sound 
of  whose  chiming  bells,  ringing  in  honour  of  a  rustic  wed- 
ding, was  borne  through  the  distance  to  the  ear  with  a  soft- 
ened and  pleasing  melody. 

The  stately  edifices  and  modern  castles,  which  are  in 
view  from  this  commanding  eminence,  seem,  by  their  su- 
perior elegance,  to  mock  the  gray  and  frowning  ruin  that 
towers  so  proudly  above  them.  Among  these  may  be  seen 
one,  half  hidden  in  the  embowering  shade  of  its  park  and 
gardens,  remarkable  for  the  tasteful  embellishments  of  its 
present  possessor,  but  more  interesting  for  a  tradition  con- 
nected with  the  spot  on  which  it  stands.  The  ancestral 
trees  which  now  lift  their  venerable  arms  above  the  splen- 
did modern  residence,  were,  eighty  years  ago,  in  the 
prime  of  their  youthful  vigour,  the  pride  and  boast  of  their 
proprietor,  and  their  rich  foliage  shaded  a  mansion,  which, 
though  of  more  modest  dimensions  and  less  costly  decora- 
tion than  the  one  that  now  occupies  the  same  site,  was  yet 
spacious  and  elegant;  and  the  beauty  of  the  grounds,  may 
even  now  be  ascribed  more  to  the  good  taste  of  the  present 
owner,  in  sparing  the  growth  of  former  years,  than  to  the 


12  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

more  fashionable  embellishments  which  are  skilfully  inter- 
woven with  matnrer  charms.  At  the  distant  period  referred 
to,  though  no  statues  or  jets  d'eau  challenged  the  admiration 
of  those  who  strayed  among  these  pleasing  shades,  the 
lawn  was  as  brightly  verdant,  the  foliage  as  fresh,  and  the 
rustic  stone  seats,  placed  at  intervals  near  the  winding  walks, 
some  of  which,  half  covered  with  moss,  still  remain,  as 
winningly  enticed  the  contemplative  wanderer  to^repose  and 
meditation. 

****** 

Toward  the  close  of  a  soft  evening  in  the  latter  part  of 
September,  when  one  of  those  bright  hours,  that  sometimes 
come  with  their  gay  smiles,  to  atone  for  the  tears  of  the 
morning,  gave  the  hope  that  the  rains  which  visually  accom- 
pany the  period  of  the  equinox  had  passed  awny;  when  the 
beams  o'f  the  sinking  sun  brought  into  full  relief  the  spark- 
ling gems,  which  had  marked  the  earlier  day  with  gloom, 
but  which  now  spangled  every  leaf  and  flower,  as  if  to  add 
fresh  loveliness  to  a  season  that  often  seems  to  "  breathe  a 
second  spring,"  a  snow-white  robe  and  silken  scarf  might 
have  been  seen,  fluttering  among  the  dark  masses  of  foliage 
that  arose  on  either  side  of  one  of  these  sequestered  walks, 
now  half  in  shade  and  then  gleaming  brightly  in  the  rays 
of  the  sun,  as  the  fair  being  whose  presence  they  indicated, 
tripped  with  a  light  but  uncertain  step,  her  onward  way. 
A  slight  angle  in  the  pathway,  might  also  have  revealed  the 
tall  and  graceful  figure  of  a  youth  by  her  side,  whose  ani- 
mated countenance  and  eloquent  manner,  bespoke,  even 
before  the  deep  rich  tones  of  his  voice  gave  them  utterance, 
the  thoughts  that  arose  in  his  heart.  A  single  glance  would 
have  sufficed  to  detect  the  principal  theme  of  his  discourse, 
but  happily' no  witnesses  intruded  on  their  promenade  or 
their  conversation. 


CARISBROOK  CASTLE.  13 

"It  needed  not  so  eloquent  an  argument,  Percy,"  said  the 
lovely  listener,  "  to  convince  me  of  the  propriety  of  the 
step  you  are  about  to  take.  I  have  too  often  been  reminded 
by  you  of  my  exclusive  devotion  to  my  own  father,  to  per- 
suade you  to  contravene  the  wishes  of  yours — but" — 

"  But  what?  dearest  Ellen." 

"  Only  that  I  thought  it  possible" — she  hesitated  and 
blushed;  "  I  could  not  entirely  suppress  some  apprehensions 
lest  the  brilliant  and  fascinating  gaieties  of  the  French  capital, 
and  the  atmosphere  of  the  court  of  Versailles  might  banish 
the  recollection  of  simpler  pleasures — of  rural  walks — of 
fireside  happiness — and  of — in  short,  that  in  the  society  of 
queens  and  princesses,  you  might  forget" — 

"Forget!  ah,  dearest  Ellen!  It  is  forme  to  dread  the 
benumbing  influence  of  the  fabled  stream.  When  I  see 
you  already  surrounded  by  courtly  knights  and  '  barons 
bold,'  may  I  not  fear  that  when  I  am  far  away,  some 
haughty  rival  may  prefer  a  claim  to  this  fair  hand  more  im- 
posing than  that  of  a  cadet  of  the  house  of  Belmore,  and 
that  an  alliance  more  suitable  may  be  proposed  for  the 
heiress  of  Lansdale; — have  I  not  some  cause  to  fear  that  such 
a  claim  may  at  least  be  considered,  and  that  Percy  Medwyn 
may  fatally  realize  the  sad  truth  that  '  les  absens  out  tou- 
jours  tort?'  " 

"  I  merit  -this  reproof,  I  confess,"  said  his  gentle  com- 
panion, as  a  transient  smile  passed  over  her  beautiful  features. 
"  It  is  a  just  punishment  for  having  first  permitted  the  in- 
fluences of  the  '  green-eyed  monster'  to  exercise  their  sway 
over  my  mind.  I  am  not  suspicious,  Percy,  nor  do  I  for  a 
moment  distrust  the  sincerity  of  your — shall  I  use  your  own 
word? — devotion.  But  there  is  something  here,"  she  added, 
pressing  her  hand  on  her  heart,'"  that  gives  me  a  presenti- 
ment of  evil,  in  spite  of  my  better  judgment  and  your  assur- 


14  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

ances.  I  hardly  know  what  I  fear,  or  why  I  should  be 
apprehensive," — and  again  the  sweet  smile  illumined  her 
lovely  countenance, — "  unless  I  am  troubled  with  the  super- 
stitious dread  that  is  said  to  haunt  the  mind  of  the  youthful 
dauphiness,  Marie  Antoinette,  who  believes  herself  con- 
tinually subject  to  some  fatal  influence,  because  her  birth- 
day cannot  be  celebrated  without  reminding  the  gay  world  of 
the  terrible  earthquake  of  Lisbon."  The  last  words  were 
spoken  in  a  lighter  tone,  but  they  trembled  on  her  lips,  and 
ere  she  was  aware,  the  tear  that  shone  through  her  long 
silken  lashes,  stood  on  her  cheek,  like  the  dew  on  the  open- 
ing rose. 

"  Ellen,  dearest!"  said  the  youth,  as  the  tear  mysteriously 
disappeared,  even  as  the  dew-drop  in  the  breath  of  morn- 
ing, and  the  roseate  cheek  was  consequently  suffused  with  a 
brighter  bloom,  "  do  not  indulge  in  such  sad  imaginings,  so 
foreign  to  your  usually  buoyant  spirit.  Have  we  not  every 
assurance  of  happiness?  have  I  not  the  sanction  and  approval 
of  those  who  have  been  the  guardians  of  our  earliest  days, 
and  their  blessing  upon  my  dearest  hopes  of  the  future? 
This  separation,  though  it  costs  me  a  bitter  pang,  must, 
shall  be  brief,  and  I  shall  return  to  claim  mine  own.  Look 
how  the  sun's  parting  beams  gild  the  distant  landscape, — 
the  orb  has  disappeared,  but  the  light  of  his  smile  still  re- 
mains, and  he  will  rise  in  cloudless  glory  to-morrow.  So 
must  I  part  with  my  present  bliss, — but  my  spirit, — my 
fondest  thoughts  remain,  and  a  long  and  joyous  morning 
will  succeed  a  few  hours  of  gloom." 

"  The  morning  sun  may  be  obscured  by  clouds,"  said 
Ellen,  indicating  with  her  hand  a  dark  spot  that  hovered  on 
the  horizon,  "  yet  I  will  not  throw  a  shade  over  the  bright 
picture  you  have  drawn.  But  with  those  last  rays,  I  must 
also  disappear,  for  the  sound  of  approaching  voices  warns 


CARISBROOK  CASTLE.  15 

me  to  hide  these  tell-tale  witnesses  in  my  eyes.  Farewell! 
and  may  good  angels  guard  you!" 

She  turned  aside  into  a  narrow  pathway  that  led  directly 
to  the  house,  and  as  Medwyn  caught  the  last  glimpse  of  the 
silken  scarf,  wafted  into  view,  and  then  withdrawn  by  the 
caprices  of  the  evening  breeze,  he  felt  that  his  sun  had  set, 
and  the  increasing  gloom  of  his  heart  and  his  path,  as  he 
slowly  retraced  his  steps,  brought  back  in  painfully  vivid 
contrast  even  to  his  young  spirit,  "  the  light  of  other  days." 

Absorbed  in  meditation  on  the  past  and  the  future,  he 
followed  the  mazy  intricacies  of  the  pathway,  hardly  con- 
scious at  that  moment,  of  the  existence  even,  far  less  the 
presence  of  any  being  beside  the  loved  one,  whose  parting 
words  yet  thrilled  with  a  sweet,  though  mournful  cadence 
on  his  heart,  when,  as  he  was  about  to  emerge  from  a  thickly 
tangled  bosquet  of  flowering  shrubs  that  bordered  the  princi- 
pal avenue  through  the  grounds,  he  was  startled  by  the  sound 
of  a  voice  pronouncing  his  own  name,  in  a  low  but  distinct 
tone,  yet  one  that  was  evidently  not  addressed  to  his  ear. 
Unwilling  to  bear  the  semblance,  as  he  would  have  scorned 
to  play  the  part  of  an  eves-dropper,  he  stepped  quickly 
forward,  and  found  himself  almost  in  contact  with  the  speaker, 
who  evidently  recoiled  at  this  unexpected  interruption.  His 
surprise  was  heightened  at  perceiving  that  his  name  had 
been  thus  unceremoniously  used  by  one  who  was  a  perfect 
stranger  to  him,  and  that  the  remark,  whatever  it  had  been, 
was  designed  alone  for  the  ear  of  his  revered  friend,  the 
father  of  his  loved  Ellen,  with  whom  this  stranger  had  ap- 
parently been  engaged  in  deep  and  earnest  conversation. 

"  Pardon  my  unintentional  intrusion,  Sir  Frederick,"  said 
Medwyn,  with  a  bow  of  respectful  courtesy  addressed  ex- 
clusively to  his  venerable  friend.  "  You  will  permit  me,  I 


16  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

trust,  a  moment's  conversation  with  you,  when  you  are  at 
leisure?"  and  he  was  passing  on. 

"  Nay,  do  not  be  in  such  haste  to  leave  us,  my  young 
friend;  there  is  no  danger  of  intrusion.  Allow  me,"  he  added, 
"  to  present  to  you  Mr.  Elford,  who  brings  me  tidings  of 
the  deepest  interest  from  India,  whence  he  has  but  now  re- 
turned, after  a  long  absence  from  his  home  and  country." 

"  It  gives  me  pleasure  to  congratulate  a  friend  of  Sir 
Frederick  Lansdale,  on  his  return  to  his  native  land,"  said 
Medwyn,  offering  his  hand  with  graceful  frankness  to  the 
stranger,  though  some  traces  of  the  hauteur  that  had  at  first 
marked  his  manner  still  remained.  A  moment's  reflection, 
however,  convinced  him  that  the  simple  circumstance  of 
hearing  his  name  pronounced,  without  any  accompanying 
remark  either  for  good  or  evil,  was  no  legitimate  cause  of 
complaint,  and  he  determined  to  banish  the  remembrance  of 
it  from  his  mind.  This  would  have  been  an  easier  task,  had 
the  person  and  manner  of  the  stranger  been  more  prepossess, 
ing;  but  there  was  liille  in  either  calculated  to  allay  the 
distrust  with  which  Medwyn  had  felt  at  first  disposed  to 
regard  him.  He  had  apparently  advanced  not  far  beyond 
thirty  years;  and  with  a  figure  rather  above  the  ordinary 
height,  features  of  some  degree  of  symmetry,  and  a  profusion 
of  dark  hair  that  accorded  well  with  the  moustache,  which 
marked  him  at  once  with  a  foreign,  as  well  as  military  air, 
he  might  have  been  pronounced  by  a  superficial  observer,  a 
handsome  man.  But  begeath  the  gentle  and  subdued  smile 
that  his  features  habitually  wore,  there  lurked  in  the  cold 
gray  eye,  and  even  in  the  curve  of  the  lip,  though  almost 
hidden  from  view,  an  expression,  which,  if  fully  developed, 
might,  perchance,  have  "  raised  emotions  both  of  rage  and 
fear."  There  was  an  easy  self-possession  in  his  manner, 
that  might  almost  have  been  pronounced  graceful,  but  for  an 


CARISBROOK  CASTLE.  17 

occasional  absence  of  refinement,  that  betrayed  it  to  be  the 
acquisition  of  later  years  in  camps,  and  perhaps  in  courts, 
rather  than  the  natural  consequence  of  gentle  birth,  and 
early  association. 

All  tins  the  discerning  eye  of  Medwyn  detected  at  a 
glance,  and  the  feeling  of  repulsion  that  he  had  at  first  deter- 
mined to  subdue,  was  again  aroused,  when  he  observed  an 
unwonted  degree  of  agitation  both  in  the  tone  and  counte- 
nance of  Sir  Frederick  Lansdate,  and  which  he  could  not 
well  avoid  connecting  with  this  mysterious  interview.  The 
icy  barrier,  which  their  first  exchange  of  civilities  promised 
to  thaw,  was,  in  the  few  moments  of  silence  that  succeeded, 
cemented  more  rigidly  than  ever. 

This  silence,  which,  brief  as  it  was,  appeared  almost  in- 
terminable, was  first  broken  by  the  senior  member  of  the 
party. 

"  You  leave  us  soon  for  the  continent,  Percy?"  he 
inquired. 

"The  request  of  my  father,  who  desires  me  to  join  him 
there  immediately,  is  urgent,"  replied  Medwyn,  "  and  a 
knowledge  of  his  present  infirm  state  of  health,  increases 
my  anxiety  to  obey  his  injunction  without  delay.  I  shall 
be  compelled  to  depart  to-morrow." 

"  Indeed?"  said  Sir  Frederick,  with  an  air  of  surprise, 
"you  were  then  mistaken,  Mr.  Elford,  in  the  idea  that  Lord 
Belmore  had  returned  from  his  continental  tour." 

"  My  informant  was  probably  mistaken,"  said  the  stranger 
with  a  cool  and  nonchalant  air,  his  features  unmarked  by 
the  slightest  trace  of  the  emotion  that  flashed  in  the  ingenu- 
ous countenance  of  Percy  Medwyn.  Apparently,  indeed, 
he  was  unconscious  of  having  excited  it,  for  he  continued 
to  converse  with  the  quiet  self-possession  and  courteous 
tone  of  a  man  who  determines  not  to  take  or  give  offence, 


18  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

touching  on  various  topics  of  general  interest,  and  display- 
ing, in  all  his  remarks,  a  readiness  and  tact,  which,  under 
other  circumstances,  could  not  have  failed  to  make  him  an 
interesting  companion.  But  the  very  solicitude  he  mani- 
fested to  banish  from  Medwyn's  mind  any  suspicion  with 
regard  to  the  circumstances  of  their  first  introduction,  in- 
creased the  evil  he  seemed  to  deprecate,  and  when  the 
stranger  took  his  leave  at  the  gate  of  the  avenue,  lingering  as 
he  paid  his  parting  compliments,  as  if  with  the  hope,  either 
of  being  invited  to  prolong  his  visit,  or  with  the  idea  that 
his  example  might  be  followed,  the  bonds  of  restraint  were 
removed,  and  a  deep  sigh  from  his  respected  friend,  revealed 
to  Medwyn  the  relief  he  felt  at  the  termination  of  this  in- 
auspicious interview. 

Medwyn  awaited  in  respectful  silence  the  communication 
which  he  was  well  aware  would  succeed,  and  the  youthful 
arm  which  had  so  often  supported  the  less  active  steps  of 
his  revered  companion,  was  readily  accepted,  as  they  re- 
turned. 

"  'Tis  strange,  passing  strange!"  said  Sir  Frederick 
Lansdale  musingly,  and  as  one  who  strives  to  rouse  himself 
from  some  unpleasant  vision  that  he  finds  it  impossible  to 
banish.  "  I  can  hardly  imagine  how  a  heart  so  benevolent, 
so  frank,  so  guileless,  can  have  selected  such  a  being  as  the 
object  of  his  idolatry.  You  are  aware  that  I  had  once  a 
brother,  the  greater  part  of  whose  life  was  passed  in  India, 
Percy?"  The  expected  response  given,  he  proceeded. 
"  The  stranger,  who  has  just  left  us,  brings  me  some  inte- 
resting details  of  his  last  years,  and  has  also  shown  me 
many  of  his  letters,  addressed  to  his  adopted  son,  to  whom 
he  writes  in  terms  of  the  most  affectionate  cordiality.  This 
child  of  his  adoption,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  you  this 
evening  saw  in  the  person  of  Elford.  I  had  heard  of  my 


CARISBROOK  CASTLE.  19 

brother's  predilection  before,  but  during  the  years  that  have 
succeeded  his  death,  no  tidings  have  ever  reached  me  of 
this,  his  adopted  son.  Would  that  he  could  more  fully 
justify  the  affection  so  lavishly  bestowed  on  him,  though  he 
may  possibly  hide  the  best  qualities  under  an  exterior,  that 
is  to  me  anything  rather  than  prepossessing.  All  this,  you 
may  perhaps  think  an  insufficient  reason  for  the  agitation 
which  you  doubtless  perceived  in  my  manner,  when  you 
so  unexpectedly  encountered  us.  Nay,"  he  continued, 
observing  that  his  youthful  companion  was  about  to  inter- 
rupt him,  "  no  explanation  is  necessary.  I  know  your  in- 
genuous nature  too  well  to  suppose  that  you  would  have 
overheard  more  than  a  single  word  of  a  conversation  not 
destined  for  your  ear,  nor  that  one,  if  you  could  have 
avoided  it.  It  is  true  there  was  something  strange  in  the 
positive  assertion  he  made  of  your  father's  return  from  his 
sojourn  on  the  continent,  and  the  insinuation  that  your 
intended  absence  was  consequent  on  his  own  appearance 
here:  but  this  was  not  the  chief  subject  of  our  discourse. 
You  have  probably  heard  that  there  was,  at  one  time,  a 
claim  made  to  myVhole  estate,  which,  unrighteously  as  it 
was  founded,  received  the  sanction  of  the  law,  and  but  for 
the  reversion  of  my  brother's  oriental  wealth,  which  he  left 
at  that  very  time,  for  a  better  and  more  enduring  inheritance, 
I  should  have  found  myself  almost  destitute.  Sad  as  was 
the  alternative,  had  I  been  permitted  to  choose,  I  would 
have  willingly  preferred  the  poverty  that  I  believed  awaited 
me,  rather  than  part  for  ever  with  one  so  dear;  for  though 
long  separated  by  the  wide  ocean,  the  tenderness  of  our 
youthful  ties  was  never  forgotten."  A  rising  tear,  here  for 
a  moment,  interrupted  the  relation  of  the  venerable  speaker, 
but  recovering  soon  from  his  emotion,  he  proceeded.  "  At 
that  time,  however,  '  the  world  was  all  before  me  where  to 


20  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

choose,'  I  was  young  and  enterprising,  and  the  loss  of  for- 
tune presented,  comparatively,  but  few  terrors  for  me.  Now, 
it  is  different.  I  find  myself  in  the  vale  of  years,  and  though 
a  period  of  sorrow  and  suffering  might  be  short  for  me,  there 
is  one  dearer  to  me  than  life, — the  last  scion, — but  I  will 
not  anticipate.  This  stianger  throws  out  dark  hints  of  a 
will  left  by  my  brother,  which  transfers  all  his  wealth  to  his 
adopted  son.  If  this  be  true,  and  the  claim  can  be  sustained, 
I  shall  be,  for  the  second  time,  as  a  worldling  would  express 
it,  the  sport  of  fortune,  and  a  ruined  man.  The  hints  which 
I  received  were  but  vague,  and  accompanied  by  a  request 
that  I  would  not  repeat  them,  an  injunction  to  which  I  am 
well  disposed  to  accede;  yet  I  determined  to  inform  you  of 
the  whole  conversation,  which  our  present  relations  ren- 
dered in  my  eyes  an  imperative  duty.  Should  my  fears  be 
realized,  there  will  be  no  need  to  appeal  to  the  delicacy,  and 
if  I  may  call  it  so  in  so  gentle  a  creature,  the  pride  of  my 
daughter,  or  to  represent  to  her  the  impropriety  of  the 
alliance  of  a  portionless  orphan,  as  she  might  probably  find 
herself,  with  a  son  of  Lord  Belrnore." 

"  My  friend,  my  father!"  exclaimed  the  young  man, 
grasping  with  affectionate  ardour  the  hand  of  his  revered 
companion,  while  his  fine  features  glowed  with  an  expres- 
sion of  triumphant  enthusiasm,  "  how  often,  how  fervently 
have  I  wished  for  an  opportunity  of  manifesting  the  purity 
of  the  love  I  bear  to  the  being  dearest  on  earth  to  us  both. 
Can  you  suppose  for  a  moment,  that  the  world's  dross 
would  be  aught  but  dust  in  the  balance,  when  compared  with 
the  excelling  loveliness  that  has  so  long  thrown  its  magic 
spell  around  me,  or  that  so  slight  a  barrier  could  deprive  me 
of  my  dearest  hopes  of  happiness?" 

"  This  is  the  language  of  youth  and  inexperience,"  said 
Sir  Frederick  Lansdale,  as  he  shook  his  head,  and  a  faint 


CARISBROOK  CASTLE.  21 

smile  for  an  instant  played  over  his  face,  though  he  returned 
the  pressure  of  the  hand  that  rested  in  his  own.  "Such 
sentiments  do  honour  to  the  noble  and  generous  heart  from 
which  they  spring,  but  I  am,  unhappily,  too  well  acquainted 
with  this  cold  world  to  permit  them  to  exercise  an  undue 
influence  on  my  mind.  I  know  that  your  prospects,  how- 
ever brilliant  for  the  future,  are  at  present  limited,  and  in 
that  future  view,  might,  indeed,  become  precarious,  if  shared 
with  a  portionless  bride." 

"  Rich  in  her  own  angelic  virtues  and  beauty,"  said 
Medwyn,  as  if  concluding  the  sentence.  "  Yes!  Sir  Fred- 
erick Lansdale, — bestow  but  this  choicest  boon  on  me,  and 
you  will  find  me  not  unworthy  the  sacred  trust.  A  bold 
heart  and  a  strong  arm  may,  perchance,  carve  out  for  me  a 
higher  destiny  than  that  which  might  await  me  if  basking  in 
the  smiles  of  fortune.  With  such  a  guiding  star  to  illumine 
my  path,  it  cannot,  it  shall  not  fail  to  lead  me  to  honour  and 
prosperity,  as  well  as  happiness." 

As  he  spoke  these  words,  they  reached  the  spot  to  which 
their  course  had  been  directed,  and  where  Medwyn's  groom 
with  his  horses  awaited  his  return.  Bestowing  a  fervent 
"  God  bless  you!"  on  his  young  friend,  Sir  Frederick  Lans- 
dale returned  on  his  solitary  way,  while  Medwyn  vaulted 
lightly  into  the  saddle,  and  a  few  bounds  of  his  spirited 
courser,  and  the  increasing  gloom  of  the  twilight,  soon  re- 
moved from  his  view  the  spot  where  his  best  earthly  hopes 
were  enshrined. 


22  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 


MYSTERIOUS  WARNINGS. 

"  Tu  nous  rends  nos  dernicrs  signaux, 
Le  long  du  bord  le  cable  crie, 
L'ancre  s'eleve  et  sort  des  eaux, 
La  voile  s'ouvre: — adieu  patrie!"     . 

DELAVIGNE. 

THE  prophecy  of  the  preceding  evening  that  the  "  morn- 
ing sun  might  be  obscured  by  clouds,"  was  fully  realized, 
and  as  Medvvyn  entered  the  Southampton  coach,  a  thick 
mist,  which  had  hardly  permitted  the  gray  dawn  to  be  dis- 
tinguishable from  the  shadows  of  night,  dissolved  in  heavy 
showers  of  rain.  Had  the  prospect  without  been  less  com- 
fortless, it  might,  possibly,  have  dispelled  the  sad  thoughts 
which  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  repel  them,  haunted  the  mind 
of  our  traveller;  but  the  rain  continued  its  ceaseless  pattering 
against  the  glasses,  and  no  sound  but  an  occasional  gust  as 
the  autumn  winds  swept  by,  and  the  encouraging  voice  of 
the  coachman  urging  on  his  willing  steeds  to  yet  greater 
speed,  interrupted  his  reverie.  Wrapping  himself  more 
securely  in  his  travelling  cloak,  he  withdrew  himself  as  far 
as  he  might  from  the  chilling  influence  of  sights  and  sounds 
which  only  increase  the  impatience  of  the  wayfarer  to  ter- 
minate his  day's  journey.  His  thoughts  dwelt  successively, 
on  the  past, — the  present,  the  future. — He  thought  of  the 
days, — of  the  years  past,  and  a  fairy  form  flitted  before  him, 
her  golden  ringlets  floating  lightly  over  her  snowy  shoulders, 


MYSTERIOUS  WARNINGS.  23 

• 

her  blue  eyes  radiant  with  infantine  glee,  and  the  dimpled 
cheek  and  ruby  lip  wreathed  with  smiles,  as  she  lavished 
her  innocent  caresses  on  him,  her  happy  and  favoured  play- 
mate and  companion.  Again,  "  a  change  came  o'er  the 
spirit  of  his  dream."  The  fair  blossom  was  unfolding  its 
silken  leaves; — the  same  bright  being  still  hovered  near  him, 
but  a  timid  blush  mantled  on  the  soft  cheek,  and  those  blue 
eyes  that  were  wont  to  meet  his  own,  now  sunk  beneath  his 
glance.  This  was  the  period  when  emancipated  from  college 
thraldom,  he  hastened  to  Lansdale  park  to  watch  the  ex- 
panding charms  of  its  lovely  inmate,  and  to  receive  lessons 
of  wisdom  from  her  revered  parent,  who  had  ever  regarded 
him  with  parental  affection.  Years  again  passed  by — once 
more  the  blessed  vision  approached,  and  in  the  full  bloom  of 
womanly  grace  and  beauty,  he  beheld  his  own  Ellen, — his 
heart's  dearest  treasure, — his  promised  bride.  Hitherto 
their  lives  had  passed  on,  "  as  a  clear  stream  by  care  unruf- 
fled.' No  apprehensions  for  the  future  had  ever  clouded  their 
blissful  day-dreams,  and  until  the  hour  of  their  recent  sepa- 
ration, no  thought  of  coming  events  had  ever  cast  its  dark 
shadow  over  the  brightness  of  their  prospect.  There  was 
something  of  prophetic  sadness  in  the  parting  words  of  Ellen, 
that  sunk  deeply  on  his  heart.  The  last  surviving  child  of 
a  numerous  and  lovely  family,  who  had  been  successively 
consigned  to  an  early  tomb;  the  idol  of  her  father,  of  whose 
declining  years  she  was  the  sole  stay  and  consolation, 
Medwyn  had  attributed  her  apprehensions  to  some  thought 
connected  with  the  misfortunes  of  her  loved  parent.  But 
it  was  now  more  probable  that  she  was  aware  of  this  mys- 
terious stranger's  visit;  he,  who  had  come  into  their  Eden 
as  if  to  mar  the  happiness  denied  by  heaven  to  himself; — 
and  though  unconscious  of  the  cause  of  his  appearance  there, 
her  forebodings  might  have  arisen  from  witnessing  the  effect 


24  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

produced  in  the  agitation  her  filial  tenderness  detected  in  her 
father's  manner.  But  the  first  tear  he  had  ever  seen  on  that 
fair  cheek,  usually  radiant  with  smiles,  had  marked  the 
moment  of  their  parting,  and  brighter  thoughts  came  with 
that  sweet  remembrance.  To  a  manly  and  enterprising 
spirit  like  his,  there  was  little  in  the  evils  that  threatened 
them,  to  excite,  his  apprehensions.  "  Yes!"  he  again  in- 
ternally repeated,  "  with  such  a  guiding  star  to  illumine 
my  path  and  cheer  me  on  my  way,  it  must,  it  shall  lead 
to  honour  and  prosperity.  In  my  thoughts  of  the  future, 
its  brightness  shall  banish  every  dark  recollection,  and  this 
bird  of  ill  omen  shall  not  again  flit  across  my  path  to  inter- 
rupt my  dream  of  happiness." 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  he  was  aroused  from  his  medi- 
tations by  perceiving  that  he  was  entering  the  great  empo- 
rium which  he  had  found  it  necessary  to  visit  before  his 
departure  for  the  continent,  and  the  bustle  consequent  on  his 
brief  sojourn  there,  banished  for  the  time,  the  thought  of 
other  cares.  The  next  evening  found  him  at  Dover,  ardently 
invoking  a  favouring  wind  for  the  passage  of  the  following 
day;  for  though  he  felt  that  "  each  remove"  lengthened  "the 
chain"  of  absence,  an  unnecessary  detention  would  only 
have  increased  his  impatience.  The  favouring  breeze  was 
granted;  but  alas!  the  marvellous  power  that  now  bears  the 
traveller  so  rapidly  to  his  destination,  was  then  unknown, 
and  a  day  was  not  sufficient  for  the  passage  that  is  now  per- 
formed within  a  few  hours.  The  wearisome  watches  of  a 
night  at  sea,  at  length  came  to  a  close,  anil  the  morning  sun 
was  gleaming  brightly  on  the  ocean  when  he  arrived  at 
Boulogne-sur-mer. 

While  a  negotiation  was  pending  for  a  post  coach, 
Medwyn  walked  out  on  the  ramparts  of  the  town;  not  as  is 
now  the  traveller's  wont,  to  marvel  at  the  projects  of  the 


MYSTERIOUS  WARNINGS.  25 

modern  Caesar,  in  his  contemplated  invasion  of  England,  or 
to  admire  the  lofty  column  of  Corinthian  architecture  com- 
menced in  commemoration  of  his  intended  achievements, — 
not  to  meditate  on  the  gorgeous  magnificence  of  the  champ 
de  drap  d'or,  which  was  displayed  at  a  few  leagues  distance, 
and  which  might,  perhaps,  have  been  seen  from  a  neigh- 
bouring height,  when  the  meeting  of  the  haughtiest  and  most 
powerful  monarchs  of  Europe  gave  it  the  celebrity  it  has 
ever  since  that  period  possessed,  but  to  take  a  last  view  of 
the  white  cliffs  of  his  native  shore.  As  he  lingered  on  the 
beach,  a  footstep  passing  near  him,  withdrew  his  attention 
from  the  object  of  his  contemplation,  and  reminded  him  that 
the  time  had  probably  arrived  when  he  must  continue  his 
journey.  He  turned  to  retrace  his  steps,  and  to  his  great 
surprise,  observed  that  the  stranger  he  had  met  with  at 
Lansdale  stood  before  him.  Medwyn  involuntarily  started. 
The  stranger,  however,  manifested  not  the  least  surprise,  nor 
exhibited  any  change  of  his  rigid  features,  except  a  slight 
movement  of  the  cheek  that  might  have  indicated  either  a 
smile  or  a  sneer.  Without  the  least  attempt  to  renew  their 
acquaintance,  except  by  a  scrupulously  courteous  bow,  he 
passed  on,  and  in  a  moment  more,  turning  the  angle  of  a 
wall,  he  was  lost  to  view.  This  circumstance,  simple  in 
itself,  awoke  afresh  the  unpleasant  reflections  that  Medwyn 
had  vainly  endeavoured  to  banish  from  his  mind.  There 
was  something  of  mystery  in  the  movements  of  this  jnan, 
that  perplexed  and  annoyed  him.  During  the  conversation 
of  the  evening  they  had  first  met,  not  a  word  was  said  of  his 
intended  journey,  and  yet,  from  the  circumstance  of  his 
being  already  at  Boulogne,  he  had  probably  set  out  within  a 
few  hours  of  his  visit  to  Lansdale.  Could  this  sudden  move- 
ment have  been  the  consequence  of  his  own  departure,  and 
3 


26  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

why  was  it  that  this  "  bird  of  ill  omen,"  as  he  had  once 
termed  him,  still  crossed  his  path? 

No  farther  space  was,  however,  at  that  moment,  allowed 
him  for  conjecture,  for  he  was  hastily  summoned  to  continue 
his  route,  and  there  is  something  in  the  very  atmosphere  of 
France  that  banishes  gloomy  thoughts  from  the  mind  of  the 
traveller.  The  very  aspect  of  the  postillion  and  his  horses, 
to  one  unaccustomed  to  their  peculiarities,  has  something 
inexpressibly  ludicrous  about  it.  The  rough  steeds  with 
their  rope  harness,  jingling  chains  and  rows  of  bells, — the 
postillion,  with  his  merry-andrew  costume  of  blue  and 
scarlet,  garnished  with  shining  buttons — the  broad  brimmed 
hat  which  might  supply  the  place  of  an  umbrella  at  need, 
and  boots  so  huge  and  clumsy  that  none  but  the  initiated 
would  ever  for  a  moment  imagine  the  purpose  to  which  they 
were  destined, — the  smiling  faces, — the  bustling  alacrity, — 
the  incessant  prattle  which  the  traveller  hears  at  every  turn, 
cannot  fail  to  withdraw  his  mind  from  more  serious  reflec- 
tions. The  journey  was  soon  accomplished,  and  the  resound- 
ing whips  were  brandished  with  yet  greater  alacrity,  when, 
after  Medwyn's  passport  had  been  duly  examined  at  the 
barriere,  the  coach  drove  through  the  avenue  of  Neuilly 
toward  the  splendid  place,  then  bearing  the  name  of  the 
ruling  monarch  of  France,  Louis  Quinze.  It  is  impossible 
to  emerge  from  the  avenue  into  this  place,  without,  at  a 
glance,  recognizing  in  it  the  taste  of  the  metropolis  of  France. 
Medwyn  entered  it  just  at  that  witching  hour  when  the 
approach  of  twilight  softened  all  the  beauties  of  the  objects 
in  view,  without  obscuring  them,  and  the  silvery  light  of  the 
moon  imparted  something  of  a  supernatural  whiteness  to  the 
marble  statues  around,  and  a  mysterious  charm  to  the  slug- 
gish Seine,  whose  tranquil  waters  gleamed  like  a  mirror 
beneath  her  beams.  The  stately  buildings  that  are  now  seen 


MYSTERIOUS  WARNINGS.  37 

on  either  side,  the  fine  facade  of  the  Madelaine  and  the  Cham- 
bre  des  Deputes,  have  arisen  since  that  period,  and  the  colos- 
sal statues  of  naval  and  military  heroes  that  now  adorn  it, 
have  been  the  work  of  later  days:  but  there  was  the  old 
Chateau  of  the  Tuileries,  with  its  beautiful  garden,  and  the 
distant  towers  of  Notre-dame  rose  boldly  on  the  view,  yet 
darker  from  the  contrast  of  the  lingering  sunset  glow  that 
gave  them  relief,  and  the  sparkling  lights  that  were  glimmer- 
ing forth  like  stars,  as  they  were  reflected  from  the  bosom 
of  the  river. 

Short  time,  however,  is  allotted  to  a  traveller,  to  mark  all 
these  objects  of  curiosity  and  interest;  and  almost  before 
he  had  time  to  observe  them,  Medwyn  arrived  at  the  hotel, 
where  an  appartement  was  prepared  for  his  reception. 

He  found  his  father  recovering  from  a  recent  attack  of 
gout,  the  alarming  symptoms  of  which  had  induced  his  at- 
tendants to  summon  his  son  with  such  urgent  haste.  The 
malady  had,  however,  subsided,  and  he  was  rapidly  re- 
covering. Medwyn  was  received  by  him  with  as  much 
kindness  as  a  man  of  the  world,  who  rarely  ever  sees  his 
children,  and  troubles  himself  but  little  about  them,  usually 
bestows  on  a  son  whom  he  does  not  regard  as  the  inheritor 
of  his  name  and  rank; — one  in  whom,  with  whatever  men- 
tal or  personal  endowments  he  may  be  gifted,  he  sees  not 
"the  stately  tree,  whose  rising  strength  will  bear  his  tro- 
phies well." 

"  My  illness  was  a  fortunate  one  for  you,  Percy,"  he 
said,  after  coolly  offering  his  hand  to  his  son,  and  at  the 
same  moment  rising  from  the  depths  of  a  luxurious  bergere 
that  had  almost  concealed  him  from  view,  and  wrapping 
his  ample  silk  robe-de-chambre  carefully  over  the  twinging 
foot,  as  he  extended  his  length  on  the  sofa.  "  Paris  was 
never  more  gay  and  brilliant  than  at  present.  The  young 


28  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

dauphiness  spreads  a  charm  over  the  court  that  it  never  be- 
fore possessed,  and  I  dare  say  you  have  no  objection  to  a 
presentation.  You  will  find  in  the  spectacles  a  la  cour, 
and  the  balls  at  Versailles,  a  pleasant  contrast  to  the  hum- 
drum life  you  have  lately  led.  I  am  nursing  my  foot,  as 
you  perceive,  that  I  may  fulfil  an  engagement  to  the  am- 
bassador a  few  days  hence.  Si  cela  vous  fait  plaisir,  as 
these  French  people  say,  you  may  prepare  to  accompany 
me." 

Medwyn  expressed  the  gratification  it  would  afford  him 
to  accede  to  his  father's  proposition,  and  a  few  minutes 
more  terminated  the  conversation  and  his  visit. 

The  first  few  days  of  his  sojourn  in  the  metropolis,  were 
devoted  to  the  examination  of  the  monuments  of  art  that  are 
scattered  in  such  rich  profusion  throughout  its  extent.  It 
was  his  first  visit  to  the  continent,  and  to  an  ardent  and 
inquiring  mind  like  that  of  Medwyn,  every  object  in  a 
foreign  land  is  replete  with  interest.  He  was  returning 
from  a  distant  course  one  morning,  and  passing  by  a  fashion- 
able cafe  on  the  Boulevard,  entered  to  look  at  the  morning 
journals.  Absorbed,  for  a  short  time,  entirely  in  an  inte- 
resting article,  it  was  only  in  raising  his  eyes  to  the  top  of 
the  page,  that  his  glance  passed  to  one  of  those  huge  mir- 
rors which  are  the  chief  ornament  and  highest  pride  of  a 
Parisian  cafe,  where  to  his  astonishment  he  perceived  the 
ominous  figure  of  the  stranger,  Elford,  standing  behind 
him.  The  utmost  self-possession  was  requisite  to  avoid 
springing  from  his  chair,  for  there  was  an  expression  of 
still  more  sinister  import  on  that  dark  brow  than  he  had 
ever  before  seen  there;  but  for  once,  Medwyn  imitated  the 
calm  and  cold  nonchalance  that  he  condemned,  and  remained 
in  exactly  the  same  attitude,  still  apparently  intent  on  the 
journal,  but  observing  minutely  the  movements  of  the 


MYSTERIOUS  WARNINGS.  29 

stranger  and  another  individual  who  appeared  to  have  ac- 
companied him  into  the  cafe.  Not  a  word  was  spoken, 
but  he  distinctly  saw  Elford  grasp  the  arm  of  his  compan- 
ion with  one  hand,  while  the  other  was  directed  toward 
himself,  as  if  in  reference  to  something  that  had  just  oc- 
curred in  their  communications  with  each  other.  This 
mute  signal  was  answered  by  a  corresponding  gesture,  and 
an  assenting  nod  of  the  head  on  the  part  of  Elford's  com- 
panion, and  in  another  instant  they  had  disappeared. 

There  was  something  in  this  circumstance  as  strange  as 
perplexing:  but  it  was  impossible  to  avoid  the  conviction 
that  the  direst  enmity  was  felt  toward  him  by  this  singular 
man,  for  every  circumstance  that  Medwyn  recalled  of  his 
countenance,  his  manner,  from  the  moment  they  first  met, 
had  heightened  this  impression  on  his  mind,  and  the  dark 
scowl  with  which  he  had  been  regarded  when  the  stranger 
imagined  himself  unseen,  the  significant  gesture  which 
seemed  to  point  him  out  for  some  sinister  design,  could  not 
be  misunderstood.  Manly  and  fearless  as  was  his  dispo- 
sition, Medwyn  recoiled  at  the  idea  of  having  a  sort  of  mys 
terious  surveillance  continually  exercised  over  him,  and 
had  a  moment's  time  been  allowed  him,  he  would  have  de- 
manded an  explanation  of  what  he  had  just  witnessed. 
This,  however,  the  rapidity  with  which  the  whole  scene 
had  passed,  precluded,  and  after  an  hour  spent  in  fruitless 
conjectures  as  to  the  object  or  motives  of  his  pursuer,  he 
resolved  to  banish  the  unpleasant  reminiscence,  and  to  seek 
some  more  congenial  occupation;  a  resolution,  to  which 
the  novelty  of  all  around  him,  enabled  him  to  adhere  with- 
out difficulty.  The  rest  of  the  morning  was  agreeably  oc- 
cupied, and  he  returned  at  a  late  hour  to  prepare  for  the 
fulfilment  of  his  numerous  engagements  for  the  evening. 

He  found  the  usual  assortment  of  cards  and  billets  d'invi- 


30  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

tation  upon  the  table  on  his  return  to  the  hotel;  and  glanced 
carelessly  over  them  before  retiring  to  his  chamber.  There 
was  nothing  of  unusual  interest  among  them  except  a  small 
note  edged  and  sealed  with  black,  and  addressed  in  the 
minute  characters  of  a  delicate  female  hand.  Before  break- 
ing the  seal,  Medwyn  examined  it  more  nearly.  It  had 
neither  initials  nor  arms  by  which  the  writer  could  be 
known,  and  the  impression  upon  the  black  wax  was  a  hand 
and  dagger,  with  the  word  "veilfez"  in  small  letters  above. 
On  opening  it  a  single  line  appeared,  the  words  were  these, 
"  Beware  of  intimacy  or  even  acquaintance  with  Adhemar 
de  Vaudemont;  it  may  prove  fatal  to  you."  There  was 
neither  date  nor  signature,  and  Medwyn  looked  with  some 
anxiety  at  the  superscription,  and  with  a  feeling  almost  of 
certainly  that  he  had  inadvertently  opened  a  billet  which  had 
not  been  designed  for  his  eye.  But  the  address  was  dis- 
tinctly to  himself;  even  the  name  of  the  hotel,  the  street, 
and  the  number  of  the  house  carefully  written.  It  could 
not  have  been  accidentally  sent  to  him.  Had  his  sojourn 
in  the  metropolis  been  of  longer  date,  he  might  have  sup- 
posed that  this  was  some  badinage  from  the  hand  of  an  ac- 
quaintance, who  sought  to  amuse  herself  with  his  credulity; 
but  his  stay  there  had  been  too  short  to  admit  of  such  an 
idea.  It  was  impossible,  however,  to  form  any  opinion  of 
the  matter,  as  the  writing,  the  seal,  even  the  name  of  the 
person  within,  against  whom  he  was  so  solemnly  warned, 
were  all  unknown  to  him. 

"  I  am  certainly  destined,  to-day,  to  mysterious  rencon- 
tres," he  said,  as  he  read  and  re-read  the  single  line  con- 
tained in  this  note,  «'  but  at  least  here  seems  to  be  a  benign 
influence  to  counteract  the  spirit  of  evil.  If  they  could  only 
come  to  an  understanding,  I  should  have  no  cause  for  fore- 
boding; but  be  that  as  it  may,  I  shall  not  permit  the  satisfac- 


MYSTERIOUS  WARNINGS.  31 

tion  of  ray  first  visit  to  this  interesting  place  to  be  marred 
by  either  threats  or  warnings  of  unseen  and  unimagined  dan- 
gers. '  Beware  of  intimacy  or  even  acquaintance  with  Adhe- 
mar  de  Vaudemont,'  he  repeated,  '  why,  this  is  as  laconic 
and  rather  more  incomprehensible  than  the  note  that  gave  his 
treacherous  brother  warning  of  the  escape  of  Coeur  de  Lion 
from  the  Austrian  dungeon.  '  Take  care  of  yourself,''  &c. 
I  suppose  I  am  to  take  care  of  myself,  if  I  chance  to  meet 
with  this  redoubtable  personage.  Well, — I  have  been  for 
many  years  accustomed  to  this  office.  Have  no  fears  for 
me,  my  kind,  invisible  friend." 

Such  were  some  of  the  thoughts  that  escaped  in  words, 
while  Medwyn  awaited  the  hour  for  the  fulfilment  of  his 
evening  engagements. 


32  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 


A  REVELATION. 

"  Thus  while  he  spake,  each  passion  dimm'd  his  face, 
Thrice  chang'd  with  pale  ire,  envy,  and  despair, 
Which  mark'd  his  borrow'd  visage  and  betray'd 
Him  counterfeit." 

PARADISE  LOST. 

DAYS  passed  on,  and  Lord  Belmore  still  found  himself 
confined  to  his  sofa,  and  unable  to  perform  the  promise  he 
had  made  to  his  son,  of  accompanying  him  to  Versailles. 
His  health,  however,  began  to  improve  more  rapidly,  and 
Medwyn  received  a  summons  from  him,  relative  to  this 
matter,  then  deemed  one  of  high  importance  in  the  fashion- 
able world.  Though  he  regarded  it  with  far  less  interest 
than  his  father,  whose  devotion  to  the  lighter  pursuits  and 
amusements  of  society,  rendered  it  an  affair  of  the  greatest 
consequence  in  his  eyes,  he  felt,  nevertheless,  a  natural  and 
laudable  curiosity  to  see  the  interior  of  this  stately  palace, 
now  glittering  more  with  the  reflected  splendour  of  the 
grand  monarque,  than  boasting  anything  of  dignity  beneath 
the  influence  of  his  successor,  who,  at  this  period,  seemed 
more  disposed  to  astonish  the  world  by  his  countenance  of 
unexampled  profligacy,  than  by  that  encouragement  of  arts 
and  arms,  which  had,  notwithstanding  the  tyrannical  injus- 
tice of  his  reign,  elevated  his  predecessor  to  the  exalted 
name  and  station  he  at  one  time  possessed  amid  the  crowned 
heads  of  Europe. 


A  REVELATION.  33 

At  the  hour  appointed,  Medwyn  repaired  to  his  father's 
hotel,  and  was  ushered  by  a  valet  into  a  cabinet  d'etude, 
adjoining  his  chamber. 

"  My  lord  is  engaged  at  this  moment,"  he  said,  bowing 
respectfully,  and  offering  a  package  of  English  journals  of 
late  date.  "  The  moment  he  is  ready  to  receive,  I  will 
return." 

Medwyn  took  the  papers,  and  was  soon  occupied  with 
their  contents,  which  could  not  fail  to  interest  him.  His  at- 
tention was,  however,  in  spite  of  himself,  drawn  to  the  sound 
of  voices  in  the  next  room,  which,  though  ia  a  low  tone, 
occasionally  fell  on  his  ear.  Every  one  has,  at  some  time  or 
other,  probably  experienced  the  nervous  sensation  occa- 
sioned by  hearing  voices  engaged  in  deep  and  earnest  con- 
versation, one  of  which  is  perfectly  familiar,  and  the  other 
left  in  part  to  the  surmisings  of  imagination,  and  both  too 
distant  and  too  low  to  admit  of  listening  to  them  with  pro- 
priety. 

Could  the  deep  low  tone  he  heard  in  such  earnest  con- 
versation with  his  father,  be  that  of  the  man  who  seemed 
destined  to  haunt  his  mind  as  well  as  watch  his  move- 
ments? He  remembered  the  striking  impression  made 
by  that  voice  the  first  time  it  met  his  ear,  and  the  resem- 
blance was  perfect; — but  it  was  impossible;  the  conversation 
was  evidently  not  characterized  by  that  coldness  which 
marks  the  intercourse  of  strangers,  and  how  could  he  sup- 
pose any  intimacy  between  Lord  Belmore,  and  one,  who, 
whatever  might  be  his  talent,  possessed  too  little  refinement 
to  please  so  fastidious  a  taste.  At  one  moment,  his  father's 
voice  rose  above  that  of  his  companion,  and  Medwyn  feared 
that  he  might  unwittingly  as  well  as  unwillingly  be  made  a 
party  to  their  communications.  He  rose  from  his  seat  with 
the  determination  of  summoning  a  servant,  and  requesting 


34  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

to  be  shown  into  another  room,  when  the  door  was  thrown 
open,  and  his  suspense  was  terminated.  Lord  Belmore  and 
the  stranger,  Elford,  appeared.  The  surprise  he  naturally 
felt  was  not  diminished,  when  he  observed  from  the  de- 
meanor of  the  latter,  that  he  evidently  intended  to  disguise 
all  recollection  of  having  previously  met  with  him,  and  was 
at  its  height  when  Lord  Belmore  presented  to  his  son  M. 
de  Gourville;  Again  Medwyn  received  the  same  cold 
courteous  bow,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  stranger  retired. 

Lord  Belmore  at  first  seemed  unwilling  to  break  the 
silence  that  succeeded  his  departure;  his  son  was  equally 
taciturn,  and  each  seemed  waiting  for  the  other  to  speak. 

"  You  seem  surprised,  Percy,"  at  length  he  said,  though 
with  visible  embarrassment  in  his  manner,  "  to  find  me 
engaged  in  conversation  with  M.  de  Gourville.  It  is  true 
he  is  not  quite  so  polished  a  specimen  of  the  society  of  the 
court  here  as  you  may  sometimes  find,  but  he  enjoys  favour 
in  high  place*,  nevertheless,  and  his  talent  is  admirable. 
He  is  a  special  favourite  with  the  beautiful  comtesse  who 
now  rules  the  successor  of  the  grand  monarque  with  as 
tyrannical  a  sway,  as  his  predecessor  ever  exercised  over 
his  unhappy  subjects.  You  will  probably  often  meet  with 
him  here." 

"  I  have  already  had  the  honour  of  an  introduction  to  M. 
de  Gourville,"  replied  Medwyn,  "and  I  cannot  say  that  I 
feel  particularly  solicitous  to  extend  my  acquaintance  with 
him.  Is  your  lordship  aware  that  this  interesting  personage 
boasts  the  convenient  privilege  of  two  names,  either  of 
which  he  assumes  as  circumstances  require?  Or  is  his 
advantageous  position  as  a  retainer  of  the  Comtesse  du 
Barry  sufficient  to  gloss  over  all  imperfections  in  a  circle 
where  she  leads  the  ton?" 

These  words  were  spoken  in  a  low  tone,  and  one  per- 


A  REVELATION.  35 

fectly  respectful;  but  there  was  a  gravity  in  Medwyn's 
manner  that  offered  a  striking  contrast  to  the  levity  affected 
by  Lord  Belmore,  and  which  the  penetration  of  his  son 
detected  as  assumed  for  the  purpose  of  concealing  some 
deeper  feeling.  Despite  his  usual  self-possession,  he  felt 
his  eyes  sink  beneath  the  ingenuous  glance  that  met  his, 
and  could  not  avoid  the  self-reproach  consequent  on  speak- 
ing thus  lightly  of  persons  and  circumstances  whose  scan- 
dalous notoriety  had  already  aided  in  laying  the  train  to 
that  tremendous  convulsion  which  was  destined  to  sweep 
like  a  tornado  through  the  nation,  and  to  involve  not  only 
the  guilty  but  the  innocent  in  its  awfut  consequences. 
"  The  grave  rebuke,  severe  in  youthful  beauty,  added  grace 
invincible,"  and  Lord  Belmore  attempted  no  farther  en- 
comium on  his  new  acquaintance.  Returning,  however,  to 
his  usually  cold  and  careless  manner,  he  said,  "  I  was  not 
unaware  of  the  circumstance  to  which  you  allude,  and  that 
M.  de  Gourville  has,  for  special  reasons,  been  occasionally 
compelled  to  use  another  name,  but  those  reasons  he  ex- 
plained to  me  this  morning,  and  I  find  them  entirely  satis- 
factory to  me." 

Medwyn  perceived  from  his  father's  manner,  that  the 
subject  was  annoying  to  him,  and  he  pursued  it  no  farther. 
Their  terms  of  intimacy  had  never  been  sufficient  to  invite 
any  special  confidence  on  his  part,  and  he  had  received  no 
encouragement  to  speak  freely  of  the  impression  made  by 
Elford,  or  M.  de  Gourville,  as  he  now  styled  himself,  upon 
his  mind.  But  his  thoughts  reverted  to  the  dear  friends  he 
had  left,  and  he  internally  resolved  to  make  them  the  de- 
positories of  his  discoveries*  and  suspicions.  Apparently 
this  idea  had  passed  through  the  mind  of  Lord  Belmore,  for 
he  remarked, 

"  I  have  been  politely  requested  by  our  ambassador  to 


36  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

send  to  his  charge  any  letters  I  may  wish  to  forward.  If, 
therefore,  you  desire  to  write  to  our  friends  at  home,  it  will 
be  the  safest  as  well  as  most  speedy  conveyance  that  will 
probably  be  offered  us  for  some  days." 

He  then  briefly  requested  his  son  to  meet  him  at  an  hour 
appointed  the  following  day  for  their  intended  visit  to  Ver- 
sailles, and  retired. 

As  the  fowler,  who  spreads  his  snare,  glides  stealthily  to 
watch  the  chances  of  his  success,  so  did  Medwyn's  "  evil 
genius,"  as  he  felt  disposed  to  regard  him,  watch  his  de- 
parture from  the  hotel  in  which  Lord  Belmore  had  taken 
up  his  temporary  residence.  He  had  entered  one  of  the 
usual  places  of  resort  for  fashionable  loungers,  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  street,  and  within  half  an  hour  after  Medwyn 
left  the  house,  he  was  a  successful  applicant  for  a  second 
interview. 

"  You  will  pardon  my  intrusion,  I  trust,  my  lord,"  he 
said,  "  but  in  the  confidential  communication  I  felt  it  my 
duty  to  make  to  you  this  morning,  I  omitted  some  circum- 
stances of  importance,  which  I  thought  it  best  to  impart  to 
you  at  once,  even  if  I  subjected  myself  to  the  imputation  of 
impertinence  in  so  speedily  renewing  my  visit." 

"  I  am  happy  to  have  an  opportunity  of  profiting  by 
your  friendly  communications,  M.  de  Gourville,"  said  Lord 
Belraore,  motioning  him  to  be  seated,  and  wheeling  his 
bergere  near  the  chair  he  indicated  for  his  guest.  "  You 
may  easily  imagine  that  I  feel  the  deepest  interest  in  our 
conversation  of  this  morning." 

"  I  certainly  should  not  have  taken  the  liberty  of  making 
the  revelation  I  have  done,"  said  M.  de  Gourville,  accept- 
jng  the  offered  seat,  "  had  I  not  felt  the  warmest  solicitude 
for  the  welfare  of  your  son,  whose  mental  and  personal 
qualifications  struck  me  the  first  moment  I  saw  him,  as  far 


A  REVELATION.  37 

worthier  to  shine  in  a  court,  than  to  be  obscured  by  adver- 
sity, and  blighted  by  an  ineffectual  struggle  against  misfor- 
tune,— perhaps  penury.  The  alliance  he  contemplates  with 
the  daughter  of  Sir  Frederick  Lansdale,  must  be  ruinous  to 
his  prospects,  since  he  is,  at  this  moment,  as  I  before 
assured  you,  in  imminent  danger  of  losing  his  whole  for- 
tune." 

"  Of  this,  then,  you  have  no  doubt,"  inquired  Lord  Bel- 
rnore  with  anxiety. 

"  None  whatever.  If  it  were  necessary,  I  could  prove 
this  day  to  your  lordship  the  existence  of  the  will,  which 
must  soon  render  him  destitute;  and  I  thought  I  should 
ill  perform  the  part  of  a  friend,  if  I  permitted  the  truth  to 
be  longer  concealed  from  you.  I  will  not,  however,  take 
the  liberty  of  giving  my  opinion  with  regard  to  the  man- 
agement of  so  delicate  an  affair.  The  intimacy  and  confi- 
dence that  exist  between  a  father  and  son,  forbid  my 
expressing  even  a  thought  on  the  subject." 

A  sudden  pang  shot  through  the  heart  of  Lord  Belmore, 
as  he  reflected  how  little  these  expressions  accorded  with 
the  state  of  feeling  and  the  intercourse  between  himself  and 
his  son;  but  he  felt  desirous  to  know  the  ideas  that  passed 
through  the  mind  of  his  visitor,  and  he  invited  him  to  ex- 
press them  by  saying, 

"  I  have  been  for  a  long  time  entirely  separated  from  my 
family,  by  circumstances  which  I  found  it  difficult  to  con- 
trol, and  there  is,  perhaps,  less  of  intimacy  than  you  sup- 
pose, in  our  intercourse.  I  should,  therefore,  regard  any 
suggestion  you  may  make,  as  a  farther  proof  of  your  friend- 
ship. You  need  be  restrained  by  no  motives  of  delicacy 
from  expressing  your  thoughts." 

"  Since  then  you  invite  me  to  give  them,"  said  his 
guest,  "  and  you  cannot  suppose  that  I  am  actuated  by  any 


873021 


38  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

but  the  purest  motives  in  wishing  to  save  your  son  from  a 
ruinous  connection,  and  your  lordship,  perhaps,  from  being 
involved  in  its  consequences,  I  confess,  that  I  should  use 
every  means  in  my  power  to  dissuade  him  from  his  fatal 
purpose.  It  is  true  that  your  consent  has  been  given  to  his 
union  with  Sir  Frederick  Lansdale's  daughter,  but  that  was 
under  entirely  different  circumstances  from  those  which  are 
likely  soon  to  exist.  He  is  now  withdrawn  from  the  influ- 
ence of  her  attractions,  and  amid  the  gaieties  and  dissipa- 
tion of  this  metropolis,  and  the  court  circle,  her  image  will 
soon  be  banished  from  his  mind." 

Lord  Belmore  shook  his  head.  "  That  suggestion  is 
vain,  M.  de  Gourville.  I  have  not  a  very  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  my  son,  but  I  know  that  his  feelings  and  princi- 
ples are  entirely  adverse  to  the  tone  of  society  here,  and 
perhaps  the  contrast  with  what  he  has  left  may  only  rivet 
the  bonds  we  would  sunder.  I  fear  therefore"— 

Lord  Belmore  paused,  for  again  his  conscience  reproached 
him  with  fearing  that  his  son  might  be  proof  against  the 
frivolities,  nay,  perhaps  the  vices  that  had  enslaved  his  own 
mind. 

"  In  that  case,"  continued  his  visitor,  rousing  from  a  deep 
train  of  thought  in  which  he  had  been  absorbed,  while  in 
an  attitude  of  respectful  attention  he  had  awaited  the  conclu- 
sion of  Lord  Belmore's  speech,  "  it  might  even  be  justifi- 
able to  have  recourse  to  stratagem.  Were  I  a  father,  and 
with  the  interests  of  such  a  son  at  stake,  I  should  not  hesi- 
tate— no, — not  a  moment,  to  break  off  all  communication 
between  him  and  the  ignis-fatuus  that  is  leading  him  to  the 
brink  of  ruin,  by  any  means  placed  with'in  my  reach." 

Lord  Belmore  looked  anxiously  at  his  guest,  as  if  await- 
ing the  fuller  development  of  his  suggestion. 

"  I  reprat,"  continued  de  Gourville,  "  that  I  should  not, 


A  REVELATION.  39 

for  a  moment,  hesitate  to  use  means,  that  might  be  perhaps 
considered  unjustifiable  in  a  less  urgent  matter.  Were  I, 
for  example,  made  the  depository  of  any  letter,  or  other  me- 
mento that  might  serve  to  fan  and  keep  alive  this  fatal  flame, 
I  should  not  hesitate  to  withhold  it." 

He  paused  for  an  instant,  and  fixed  his  eye  on  his  host, 
as  the  serpent  is  said  to  observe  the  fluttering  of  the  bird 
that  hovers  near  him,  while,  at  each  instant,  the  destined 
victim  narrows  the  circle  in  which  he  flies  around  his 
tempter. 

"  Perhaps,  however,"  he  continued,  in  a  lower  and  more 
subdued  tone,  "  I  have  gone  too  far.  Pardon  me,  my 
lord,  if  I  have  been  led  by  my  friendship  for  yourself  and 
my  anxiety  for  the  future  welfare  of  your  son,  to  make  a 
suggestion  that  your  better  judgment  might  disapprove.  It 
is  unnecessary  to  add  more  at  present,  of  the  thoughts  that 
pass  through  my  mind,  or  again  to  repeat  my  request  that 
our  conversations  may  be  strictly  confidential.  Your  son 
is  unconscious  of  the  interest  I  feel  in  his  welfare  and  hap- 
piness, and  has  probably  conceived  a  very  natural  preju- 
dice against  me  from  the  circumstance  I  mentioned  to  you 
this  morning.  But  I  have  already  trespassed  too  long  on 
your  time,  and  am  probably  keeping  you  from  more  agree- 
able engagements."  And  courteously  renewing  the  parting 
compliments  he  had  so  lately  made,  he  departed. 

Lord  Belmore  slowly  paced  the  apartment  to  and  fro  for 
some  minutes  after  his  visitor  had  disappeared.  He  was 
absorbed  in  deep  and  anxious  thought,  when  his  meditations 
were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a  servant  with  a  package 
of  letters,  which  he  silently  placed  on  the  table,  and  with- 
drew. They  were  the  letters  sent  by  Medwyn  in  accord- 
ance with  his  father's  request.  The  temptation  was  offered 
at  precisely  the  moment  the  tempter  would  have  selected  to 


40  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

ensure  his  success.  The  mind  of  Lord  Belmore  had  been 
at  work  only  on  the  arguments  which  could,  in  his  opinion, 
justify  such  a  proceeding  as  the  destruction  of  whatever 
letters  of  his  son  to  Sir  Frederick  Lansdale  might  fall  into 
his  hands,  and  the  remorse  that  should  have  succeeded  such 
an  idea  in  his  mind,  was  not  yet  fully  awakened. 

Still,  however,  it  was  difficult  to  suppress  the  feeling  of 
shame  that  oppressed  him,  as  he  paused,  and  rested  his 
elbow  on  the  mantel.  The  venerable  form  of  Sir  Frederick 
Lansdale  arose  before  him,  and  he  remembered  their  early 
friendship,  the  ties  of  which  had  only  been  dissolved  by  the 
uncongeniality  of  their  pursuits,  and  his  own  continued 
absence  and  silence; — he  thought  of  Ellen, — her  beauty, 
her  gentleness,  her  piety, — the  anguish  that  would  sear  her 
heart  and  blight  her  young  spirit  in  believing  herself  for- 
gotten— neglected — forsaken; — he  remembered  the  devoted 
attachment  of  his  son,  fostered  and  encouraged  by  himself, 
when  he  believed  it  would  conduce  not  only  to  his  happi- 
ness, but  to  his  worldly  prosperity  and  honour.  But  now 
— the  dark  side  of  the  picture  presented  itself  to  his  view — 
and  mammon  triumphed!  A  few  minutes  more,  and  the 
lines  which  poured  the  full  tide  of  a  pure  and  noble  heart — 
that  were  destined  to  revive  the  loveliest  flower  that  ever 
pined  in  the  shade  when  the  sun  had  withdrawn  his  smile, 
were  consigned  to  the  flames,  and  their  ashes  scattered  to 
the  winds.  Apt  emblem,  alas!  of  the  visions  of  glory  and 
of  bliss,  that  sometimes  blaze  with  meteor-like  brilliancy 
around,  as  if  to  mock  with  their  transient  splendour  the 
dust  and  ashes  into  which  they  are  doomed  to  fall! 

But  while  a  dark  flush  arose  to  the  very  brow  of  Lord 
Belmore,  as  he  turned  away  from  the  contemplation  of  the 
crushed  and  blighted  hopes  that  were  withering  at  his  feet, 
what  were  the  thoughts  that  passed  through  the  mind  of  his 


A  REVELATION.  41 

tempter?  At  this  moment  de  Gourville  was  striding  through 
the  most  retired  part  of  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries,  amid  its 
deep  and  embowering  shades,  where  the  gay  world  rarely 
enter.  He  was  alone,  and  his  cold  eye  brightened  with 
anticipated  triumph,  and  a  haughty  smile  rested  on  his  lip, 
as  these  thoughts  came  forth  in  words — 

"  Yes!"  he  exclaimed,  and  his  step  became  still  more 
firm  and  more  rapid,  "the  prize  is  within  my  grasp,  and 
mine  shall  not  be  the  fault  if  I  do  not  clutch  it!  Yes,  proud 
lover!  I  shall  yet  see  thee  humbled  in  the  dust,  and  thou 
shall  know  and  feel  my  power!  In  vain  wilt  thou  struggle 
in  the  net  that  I  have  so  warily  spread  for  thee.  Amid  the 
shoals  and  quicksands  that  threaten  unsuspecting  youth  in 
these  scenes  of  dangerous  fascination,  I  will,  unseen,  be  thy 
pilot,  and  I  will  lead  thee  to  safety;  ay, — "  and  he  laughed 
bitterly  and  scornfully,  "  such  safety  as  the  mariner  feels 
when  clinging  to  his  last  plank  in  mid-ocean,  when  no  hand 
is  near  to  succour  or  to  save.  The  father  shall  be  the  guar- 
dian and  director  of  the  son, — meet  protector, — and  then, 
seared,  blighted,  stained  with  dishonour,  perhaps  by  crime, 
thou  wilt  be  my  fitting  competitor  for  the  prize  at  which  we 
both  aim !  But  even  should  my  well  devised  schemes  fail, 
and  thou  shouldst  resist  my  undiscovered  influence,  (here 
are  yet  means  to  open  my  way  to  those  treasures  which 
are  now  destined  for  thee.  My  hand  is  steady  and  sure,  its 
strength  hath  been  tried  ere  now,"  and  he  struck  the  handle 
of  a  stiletto  concealed  within  his  breast.  "  And  thou!  bright 
and  beautiful  star  of  promise,  that  I  have  watched  secretly, 
and  hardly  dared  even  to  gaze  on,  though  all  unknown  to 
thee, — thou,  whose  angelic  purity  removes  thee  to  such  an 
immeasurable  distance  from  me,  that  I  feel  as  one  who  wor- 
ships a  planet  that  he  can  never  approach,  thou,  beauteous 
4 


42  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

Ellen!  in  all  thy  loveliness  and  innocence,  thou  shall  be 
mine — yes, — mine!" 

He  left  the  garden  as  he  spoke,  and  passing  through 
the  gate  that  opened  on  the  Place  Louis  Quinze,  mingled 
with  the  crowd  that  thronged  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  dis- 
appeared. 


VERSAILLES. 

"  Come  now,  a  roundel  and  a  fairy  song, 
Then  to  your  offices,  and  let  me  rest." 

MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

"  A  merrier  man 

Within  the  limit  of  becoming  mirth, 
I  never  spent  an  hour's  talk  withal." 

LOVE'S  LABOUR  LOST. 

VERSAILLES!  How  many  associations  does  the  name 
only  of  this  once  splendid  residence  of  the  haughtiest  of 
monarchs,  call  up  in  the  mind!  How  many  graphic  scenes 
sketched  by  the  fairy  hand  of  the  graceful  de  Sevigne,  are 
again  invested  with  life  and  motion,  peopling  its  now  de- 
serted halls  with  the  gay,  the  beautiful,  the  proud!  Not 
then,  as  now,  did  the  foot-fall  of  the  solitary  wanderer 
through  those  stately  halls  startle  his  own  ear,  and  interrupt 
his  meditations  with  its  solemn  echo. 

At  the  epoch  here  referred  to,  in  that  kingly  palace,  all 
was  life,  animation  and  gaiety,  and  as  Lord  Belmore's 
coach  entered  the  place  (Varmes,  he  perceived  that  an  un- 
usual number  of  persons  were  assembled  for  the  reception 
which  he  had  been  invited  to  attend.  It  was  fortunate  for 
Medwyn  and  his  father,  that  their  rapid  drive  to  the  chateau 
had  not  been  retarded  by  a  few  minutes  delay,  for  the  usual 
hour  of  the  reception  had  been  anticipated  by  the  impatience 
of  the  sovereign  to  enjoy  the  peculiar  beauty  of  the  day,  in 


44  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

devoting  it  to  the  pleasures  of  the  chase,  of  which  his  im- 
moderate fondness  was  well  understood;  and  the  customary 
expression  "/-e  roinefait  rien  aujourd  hui,"  when  the  day 
was  not  dedicated  to  this  favourite  amusement,  had  been 
already  in  circulation,  and  even  met  the  royal  ear  without 
giving  offence. 

The  great  folding  doors  of  the  sulle  du  trone  were  thrown 
open,  and  the  king  appeared,  as  Lord  Belmore  and  his  son 
took  their  places  in  the  circle,  around  which  his  majesty 
rapidly  passed,  pausing  a  few  minutes  to  accost  those  indi- 
yiduals,  whom  he  deemed  most  worthy  of  his  notice,  and 
passing  by  others  with  a  smile  or  gesture  of  recognition; 
but  notwithstanding  his  outward  civility,  evidently  mani- 
festing his  ennui  at  the  formality  of  those  rules  of  etiquette 
established  by  his  predecessor,  which  it  was  well  known 
he  heartily  hated,  as  well  as  his  anxiety  to  exchange  so 
uncongenial  a  scene  for  employments  better  suited  to  his 
taste. 

Brief  was  the  space  allotted  for  the  display  of  stars  and 
garters,  of  crosses  and  orders,  of  gold  embroidery,  of  jewelled 
swords  and  snowy  plumes.  He  paused  for  some  minutes 
to  converse  with  the  ambassador,  near  whom  Lord  Belmore 
and  his  son  were  standing,  and  during  their  colloquy  his 
eye  glanced  to  the  manly  and  graceful  form  of  Medwyn. 
Alive  to  whatever  promised  to  conduce  to  his  gratification, 
he  saw  at  once  in  the  symmetrical  yet  athletic  youth  before 
him  a  desirable  companion  in  his  favourite  amusement,  and 
the  ceremony  of  presentation  was  hardly  completed,  when, 
with  a  smile  that  strikingly  contrasted  with  the  cold  reserve 
which  had  hitherto  marked  his  manner,  he  accosted  him.— 

"  The  chase  has  doubtless  its  attractions  for  you,"  said 
his  majesty,  throwing  aside  the  stately  air  that  he  deemed  it 
necessary  to  assume  in  public,  and  for  a  moment  returning 


VERSAILLES.  45 

to  the  careless  ease  of  manner  that  marked  his  intercourse 
in  private. — "  A  few  days  hence  will  find  us  in  our  chateau 
at  Fontainbleau,  and  the  season  invites  to  livelier  pleasures 
than  the  salons  of  Paris  at  present  afford.  We  shall  expect 
you  at  the  royal  chase  on  Thursday." 

Medwyn  bowed,  and  signified  his  acceptance  of  this  flat- 
tering invitation,  so  different  from  the  ceremony  usually 
practised  on  such  occasions.  But  the  barriers  of  etiquette 
were  too  often  broken  by  the  King,  for  such  a  circumstance 
to  attract  particular  remark;  and  his  present  infringement  on 
its  rules  elicited  no  farther  notice  than  a  badinage  after  the 
reception  was  over,  and  a  congratulation  to  Medwyn  on  the 
success  of  his  first  appearance  at  the  Court  of  Versailles. 
The  tour  of  the  circle  was  soon  completed,  and  his  majesty, 
with  his  attending  suite,  retired,  leaving  his  guests  at  liberty 
either  to  return  to  the  metropolis,  or  to  amuse  themselves 
by  driving  through  the  park,  or  strolling  through  the  gro- 
tesque yet  splendid  garden,  while  he  prepared  for  the 
business  of  the  day,  la  chaftse. 

Medwyn  decided  in  favour  of  the  former,  and  while  his 
father  took  his  solitary  drive  through  the  park,  he  rambled 
amid  those  bosquets  and  stately  groves  of  marronniers,  that 
.even  then  had  developed  much  of  that  beauty  with  which 
nature,  in  her  charming  freaks,  often  decorates  the  works  of 
art;  and  though  the  moss-covered  rocks,  that  now  resemble 
so  much  those  arranged  by  her  hand,  might  then,  to  a  critical 
eye,  have  betrayed  their  artificial  construction,  they  gave  a 
sylvan  effect  to  the  scene,  and  heightened  its  more  regular 
beauties.  The  waters  of  the  Seine,  which  like  all  else  around 
him,  had  obeyed  the  behest  of  the  grand  monarque,  were 
thrown  high  in  sparkling  showers  by  the  hands  of  the  bronze 
and  marble  deities  that  seemed  to  hold  their  court  in  the  fairy 
scene,  or  fell  in  murmuring  cascades  through  thickets  of 


46  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

shrubs  and  trees  that  invited  the  midday  wanderer  to  seek 
their  cool  recesses. 

Medwyn  was  passing  slowly  through  one  of  these  bos- 
quets, watching  the  rippling  of  the  stream  that  fell  over  the 
rocks  above,  his  thoughts,  probably,  at  that  moment  occupied 
with  far  distant  objects,  when  his  ear  was  arrested  by  the 
sound  of  a  guitar,  struck  by  a  hand  of  no  ordinary  skill.  The 
circumstance  of  hearing  music  at  such  an  hour,  and  in  such  a 
spot,  excited  no  surprise,  for  in  these  shades  where  pleasure 
reigned,  the  goddess  was  ever  ready  to  receive  the  homage 
of  her  votaries.  After  a  delicate  symphony,  a  soft  and  plain- 
tive female  voice  appeared  to  continue  the  pastorale  that  had 
been  previously  commenced. 

"  Arbres  epais,  et  vous,  pr6s  6mailles 
La  beaut£  dont  1'hiver  vous  avail  de'pouillds 

Par  le  printemps  vous  est  renduej 
Mais  mon  lime  ne  reprend  pas 
La  joie  helas!  que  j'ai  perdue!" 

"  Too  grave,  too  grave,  by  half,"  said  a  laughing  voice 
near.  "  Why,  my  pretty  Ismene,  what  has  put  such  fancies 
into  your  head  this  morning?  but  come, — give  me  your 
guitar,  I  will  finish  your  song  with  an  appropriate  senti- 
ment." A  chord  was  struck,  and  Medwyn  heard  the  rich 
tones  of  a  manly  voice. 

"duand  1'hiver  a  g\ac€  nos  gue"rets 
Le  printemps  va  reprendre  sa  place, 

Et  raraene  &  nos  champs  leurs  attraits; 
Mais  helas!  quand  1'age  nous  glace, 
Nos  beaux  jtmrs  ne  reviennent  jamais!" 

"  There  is  a  sentiment  for  you.  If  '  nos  beaux  jouis  ne 
reviennent  jamais,'  should  we  not  make  the  best  of  them 
now?" 


VERSAILLES.  47 

"  Your  refrain"  said  his  companion,  "  may  be  suitable 
for  you,  but  mine  is  more  appropriate  for  me."  "  Mon 
time  ne  reprend  pas  la  joie  helas!  que  jai  perdue!"  she 
repeated,  shaking  her  head  with  an  air  of  deep  sadness.  "  But 
my  minstrelsy  is  at  an  end,  give  me  back  my  guitar,  and  do 
not  forget  the  warning  in  my  first  stanzas.  Adhemar  de 
Vaudemout,  remember!" 

She  spoke  these  words  with  energy,  and  in  rather  an 
elevated  tone,  and  as  Medwyn  passed,  they  fell  on  his  ear 
with  such  distinctness,  that  they  seemed  addressed  to 
himself. 

"  Adhemar  de  Vaudemont  will  not  forget  your  friendly 
counsel,  fair  Ismene,  but  why  need  it  be  spoken  so  loud? 
There  is  no  need  to  awaken  the  echoes  to  witness  our  com- 
pact; they*  might  prove  faithless." 

Medwyn  passed  on,  and  for  a  moment  he  endeavoured 
in  vain  to  recollect  the  association  in  his  mind  with  the 
name  that  had  twice  been  repeated  in  his  hearing,  and  once, 
as  he  had  fancied,  and  almost  believed,  uttered  with  the 
design  to  attract  his  attention.  It  was  the  recollection  of  the 
mysterious  billet  he  had  received  on  his  first  arrival  in  the 
metropolis,  which  then  alone  induced  him  to  recall  the 
appearance  of  the  persons  whom  he  had  seen  a  moment 
before. 

He  had  hardly  observed  aught  in  the  female  figure  but  its 
fragile  delicacy,  and  the  whiteness  of  the  slender  fingers 
that  swept  the  chords  of  the  guitar.  Her  companion's  ap- 
pearance was  far  more  remarkable.  There  was  something 
fantastic  in  the  troubadour  style  of  dress  he  had  assumed, 
probably  for  the  adventure  of  the  morning,  that  heightened 
rather  than  impaired  the  effect  of  a  figure  of  slight  propor- 
tions but  perfect  symmetry,  and  the  striking  beauty  of  his 
features  and  complexion  were  redeemed  from  the  charge  of 


48  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

effeminacy  only  by  the  expression  of  a  laughing  and  brilliant 
eye,  that  bespoke  a  votary  of  the  "  goddess  fair  and  free," 
while  the  gay  smile  on  his  lip  seemed  ever  ready  to  proclaim 
the  sentiment  if  not  the  words,  "  Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean 
to  live." 

As  Medwyn  was  recalling  the  appearance  of  these  two 
persons  to  mind,  he  was  accosted  by  a  Parisian  acquaintance, 
and  the  ordinary  salutations  of  the  morning  were  hardly  ex- 
changed, when  a  light  footstep  was  heard  behind  them,  and 
the  young  troubadour  laid  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Med- 
wyn's  companion. 

'•  Whither  so  fast,  ray  friend,"  he  exclaimed,  as  they 
were  about  to  continue  their  walk.  "  Are  you  so  soon 
tired  of  this  courtly  region,  or  have  you  some  more  agree- 
able employment  for  the  rest  of  the  day?  By  the  way, 
Monteil,  where  were  you  last  night?" 

"  A  pretty  question,  truly,"  replied  Medwyn's  compan- 
ion. "  It  is  not  very  probable  that  I  should  receive  a  very 
satisfactory  answer  to  a  similar  one,  but  at  least  I  will  make 
the  experiment;  pray  where  were  you  last  night?  but  be- 
fore you  answer  my  query,  I  must  see  an  acquaintance  en 
train  between  my  friend  Mr.  Medwyn  and  the  prince  of 
good  fellows,  Adhemar  de  Vaudemont.  However,"  he 
continued,  after  this  unceremonious  introduction,  "  I  do  not 
intend  to  forget  the  inquiry  to  which  your  own  indiscretion 
has  subjected  you.  Where  were  you  last  night?" 

"  It  will  take  me  some  moments  to  consider,"  de  Vaude- 
mont began. — 

— "  And  to  make  a  good  story,  perhaps,"  said  his  friend, 
laughing  as  he  finished  the  sentence  for  him;  "  but  pro- 
ceed." 

"  Well,  on  condition  that  I  am  not  to  be  interrupted,  for 
I  have  a  long  story  to  tell.  After  an  hour  at  the  Opera,  I 
was  at  a  fete  champetre." — 


VERSAILLES.  49 

"  A  fete  champetre,  and  after  the  opera!  I  suppose 
your  present  troubadour  or  pastoral  style  of  dress  was  or- 
dered for  that  interesting  occasion." 

"  Nay,  positively,  if  you  interrupt  me  again,"  replied  de 
Vaudemont,  "  you  shall  tell  the  story  yourself,  or  the  truth 
rather,  for,  singular  as  my  adventure  was,  it  was  witnessed 
by  a  thousand  persons.  All  Paris  is  ringing  with  laughter 
at  it  this  morning,  and  your  haste  in  paying  your  court  to 
his  majesty  has  alone  prevented  you  from  hearing  it  sooner. 
After  the  opera  I  went  to  the  magnificent  hotel  of  our 
friend,  the  Duchesse  de  M.,  whose  exuberant  corpulency 
and  romantic  affectation  of  sentiment  present  so  amusing  a 
contrast,  where  I  found  the  beau  monde  assembled,  and 
where  I  marvel  more  and  more  that  you  were  not.  What 
do  you  suppose  was  the  style  of  the  entertainment?  Why, 
precisely  as  I  told  you,  a  fete  champetre, — all  bowers,  and 
roses,  and  Floras,  and  shepherds,  and  shepherdesses.  But 
the  most  superb,  and  what  proved  the  most  amusing  part 
of  the  scene,  was  a  large  apartment,  separated  by  a  trans- 
parency from  the  salle  de  danse,  and  in  which  were  repre- 
sented hills  and  dales,  valleys  and  rivulets,  while  on  the 
borders  of  one  of  these  clear  streams,  and  reposing  on  the 
velvet  turf,  we  beheld  a  graceful  shepherdess,  the  prima  of 
the  danseuses  de  Vopera,  holding  a  crook  in  her  hand,  and 
intently  and  apparently  with  no  little  anxiety,  watching  the 
movements  of  her  snowy  flock." 

"  Quite  a  pretty  idea,"  again  interrupted  his  friend.  "A 
triumph  no  doubt,  of  the  scenic  art." 

"  Mistaken, — altogether  mistaken,"  returned  de  Vaude- 
mont, "  it  was  no  scene,  but  a  reality,  as  we  all  found  soon 
to  our  cost.  But  to  continue; — this  beautiful  pastorale  was 
suddenly  revealed  to  our  view,  and  reflected  from  the  mir- 
rors with  which  the  adjoining  saloon  was  ornamented,  and 


50  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

which  are, — were,  alas!  I  should  say,  the  most  magnificent 
in  Paris,  and  it  is  impossible  to  imagine  the  admiration  it 
elicited.  This  was  the  moment  for  the  music  to  give  the 
signal,  and  for  the  beautiful  shepherdess  to  conduct  her 
fleecy  charge  across  the  apartment  occupied  by  the  scene  1 
have  described;  when,  by  some  unfortunate  mistake  of  the 
orchestra,  which  was  to  have  breathed  a  delicate  pastorale, 
the  musicians  burst  forth  in  one  of  the  grandest  flights  of 
the  opera,  and  in  one  moment  the  whole  illusion  vanished. 
The  flock  of  sheep  which  were  to  have  followed  their  ber- 
gere  off  the  slage,  suddenly  became  frenzied  with  terror, 
and  breaking  through  all  decorum,  and  through  the  trans- 
parency at  the  same  moment,  rushed  in  among  us,  scatter- 
ing the  dancers,  who  with  alternate  shrieks  of  alarm  and 
of  laughter,  fled  in  every  direction,  while  the  crashing  of  the 
splendid  mirrors,  which  flew  in  fragments  on  every  side, 
as  the  terrified  animals  in  vain  endeavoured  to  escape,  and 
the  cries  and  exclamations  of  the  guests,  mingled  with  the 
piteous  bleatings  of  the  flock,  converted  the  magnificent 
fete  ehampetre  into  a  perfect  scene  of  bedlam." 

"Exhausted  with  my  efforts  to  save  my  partner  from  the 
wreck,  and  with  laughter  at  the  touching  despair  of  the  now 
unsentimental  duchesse,  who,  herself,  actually  aided  in  pur- 
suing the  destructive  fugitives,  I  made  my  escape,  and  took 
refuge  on  the  other  side  of  the  street  in  the  toison  (Tor 
where  I  awaited  my  coach,  and  while  regaining  my  breath, 
congratulated  myself  on  exchanging  a  fete  ehampetre  for  an 
'argonautic  expedition.'  " 

"  A  charming  adventure,  truly,"  said  his  friend,  laughing 
heartily  as  they  recounted  the  names  of  some  of  the  princi- 
ple actors  in  the  scene.  "  I  regret  more  than  I  supposed  I 
should,  that  I  was  not  present  on  the  occasion.  An  engage- 
ment I  thought  more  promising  than  this  Arcadian  fete  drew 


VERSAILLES.  51 

me  in  another  direction.  At  another  time  I  shall  submit  my- 
self more  implicitly  to  your  guardianship." 

"  You  will  act  wisely,  for  you  cannot  have  a  more  pru- 
dent counsellor.  '  The  prince  of  good  fellows,'  as  you  have 
just  had  the  goodness  to  style  me,  cannot  be  better  employed 
than  in  giving  salutary  advice  to  his  subjects,  and  occa- 
sionally enlightening  them  upon  topics,  on  which  they  are 
profoundly  ignorant.  Though  you  were  before  me  in  your 
courtly  attendance  to-day,  I  doubt  not  I  have  better  informa- 
tion of  what  passes  in  the  palace.  Are  you  aware  that  the 
beautiful  tyrant  who  rules  the  sovereign  with  such  undis- 
puted sway,  the  Comtesse  du  Barry,  is  in  the  depths  of  de- 
spair? It  is  true,  I  assure  you.  She  has  been  in  terror  for 
some  time  past,  lest  the  beauty  and  innocence  of  the  young 
dauphiness,  so  recently  adopted  into  the  royal  family, 
should  present  rather  a  striking  contrast  to  her  own  charms; 
and  yesterday  an  act  of  imprudence  (a  remarkable  circum- 
stance, you  will  probably  think,)  has  nearly  broken  the  fet- 
ters in  which  she  has  held  majesty  captive  so  long. 

"  Her  morning  was  all  sunshine, — as  usual.  She  even 
made  her  appearance  in  the  council  chamber,  and  perched 
herself  on  the  arm  of  the  grand  fauteuil,  during  the  council, 
to  the  scandal  of  the  graver  members  of  which  it  was  com- 
posed, and  the  divertisement  of  the  less  rigid.  But  in  the 
evening  came  a  cloud,  and  a  most  threatening  one.  A  large 
package  of  letters  were  delivered  to  the  king  in  her  presence; 
she  took  them  from  his  hand,  and  denouncing  them  as  trea- 
sonable to  herself,  declared  her  determination  to  destroy 
them.  His  majesty  pursued  the  agile  fugitive  around  the 
room,  and  when  about  to  recover  his  despatches,  to  his 
utter  astonishment  she  threw  the  whole  into  the  fire.  The 
king  became  furiously  angry,  and  seizing  her  by  the  arm, 
led  her  to  the  outside  of  the  door,  where  she  has  been  ever 


52  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

since  in  the  deepest  penitence  and  despair;  awaiting  her 
return  to  favour,  which  it  is  hoped  by  others,  and  feared 
by  herself,  is  rather  a  doubtful  matter.  I  am  sure  of  the 
truth  of  the  story  I  have  heard,  for  I  have  observed  to-day, 
not  only  her  own  absence  from  court,  but  what  is  more  re- 
markable, that  of  her  little  sapajou,  the  African  page,  Za- 
more,  whose  sable  visage  and  diminutive  stature,  form  so 
striking  a  type  of  the  reputation  of  his  mistress.  Black  as 
is  his  ugly  physiognomy,  however,  it  has  earned  him  a  large 
pension  from  the  coffers  of  the  state. 

"  But  I  forget  how  largely  I  am  dealing  in  scandal,  when 
I  am  to  be  the  guardian  and  guide  of  such  grave  and  reve- 
rend signers." 

As  he  spoke  they  reached  the  orangerie,  and  descending 
the  hundred  broad  steps  that  lead  into  it,  passed  through  its 
fragrant  shades,  and  exchanging  salutations,  separated  at 
the  outer  grille. 

"  This,  then,"  said  Medwyn  internally,  during  his  drive 
to  the  metropolis,  "  is  the  demon  against  whom  I  have  been 
so  solemnly  warned.  A  handsome  one  he  certainly  is,  and 
the  merriest  of  his  calling  he  must  be;  yet  perhaps  the  more 
dangerous  from  these  very  attractions.  Thanks  to  my  un- 
known counsellor  for  her  kind  surveillance.  But  it  would 
appear  from  the  words  that  passed  this  morning,  that  he, 
too,  has  received  a  warning,  and  in  spite  of  his  careless 
ease  of  manner,  I  remarked  his  surprise  on  hearing  my 
name,  and  the  watchful  scrutiny  with  which  he  observed 
me.  I  have,  however,  wearied  myself  with  conjectures 
concerning  this  matter,  which,  perhaps,  after  all,  deserves 
no  consideration." 

But  the  scenes  he  had  just  witnessed,  were  not  so  readily 
dismissed  from  his  mind,  and  they  occupied  it  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  all  others,  at  least  until  events  of  deeper  interest, 
superseded  rather  than  banished  them  from  his  thoughts. 


A  VISION. 

"My  hoarse  sounding  horn 
Invites  thee  to  the  chase, — the  sport  of  kings; 
Image  of  war  without  its  guilt." 

SOMERVILLE. 

THE  brightest  days  of  the  early  autumn  are,  in  all  climes, 
almost  as  lovely  as  the  spring,  and  their  comparative  merits 
have  long  formed  a  subject  of  controversy  between  their 
respective  advocates.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  difference  between 
freshly  budding  youth,  and  more  staid  and  matronly  graces, 
and  it  may  be  for  this  reason  that  the  loveliness  of  the  spring 
is  more  delightful  to  the  young,  while  the  riper  charms  of 
autumn  have  greater  attraction  for  those  who  can  appreciate 
maturer  beauties. 

There  are,  however,  some  exceptions  to  this  rule,  and 
Percy  Medwyn  was  one  of  these.  It  was,  perhaps,  that 
he  would  have  been  called,  at  least  by  his  new  acquaintance, 
de  Vaudemont,  older  than  most  young  men  of  his  age,  and 
this  might  have  been  the  cause  of  his  preference;  but  on  the 
morning  that  he  prepared  to  accept  the  royai  invitation  to 
join  the  chase  at  Fontainbleau,  this  preference  could  not 
have  surprised  the  most  enthusiastic  admirer  of  spring. 

The  sun  rose  in  cloudless  splendour,  and  the  deep  and 
brilliant  blue  of  the  arch  above  was  reflected  from  each 
rivulet  that  wound  its  way  through  the  forest,  as  the  party 
assembled  for  the  sport  of  the  day,  and  the  resounding  notes 
of  the  cor  de  chasse,  the  clanging  of  horses'  hoofs,  and  the 


54  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

merry  laugh  and  gleeful  voices  around,  awoke  the  echoes, 
and  already  gave  notice  to  the  startled  deer  of  the  approach- 
ing fate  of  one  at  least  of  their  herd. 

"  You  see  I  am  in  time  to-day,  for  once,  Medwyn,"  said 
de  Vaudemont,  patting  the  neck  of  his  spirited  courser,  and 
endeavouring  to  restrain  his  ardour  until  they  were  all  fairly 
mounted.  "But  what  a  superb  charger  you  have  there! 
the  only  danger  is  that  he  may  break  your  neck;  however, 
there  is  not  much  danger  of  that,  I  perceive,"  added  he, 
as  Medwyn  sprung  to  the  saddle,  and  permitted  his  fiery 
steed  to  bound  and  capriole  at  will,  while  with  the  most 
perfect  grace  and  ease,  he  subjected  him  instantly  to  his 
control.  "Such  centaurs  are  not  always  to  be  found  here," 
continued  de  Vaudemont,  "  and  you  have  the  advantage  of 
us  in  that  high-bred  courser.  But  his  majesty  is  approach- 
ing, we  must  make  our  court  before  the  chase  begins,  and 
it  will  not  be  our  fault,  I  am  well  assured,  si  le  roi  ne  fait 
rien  aujourd  hut." 

Brief  was  the  ceremonial  preceding  the  business  of  the 
day,  for  the  king  was  impatient  for  its  commencement,  and 
the  chase  began.  A  noble  stag  was  soon  roused  from  his 
covert,  and  in  the  ardour  of  the  pursuit  the  party  were  soon 
completely  separated.  Medwyn  found  himself  alone,  and 
hearing  the  cor  de  chasse,  and  the  shouts  of  the  hunters  at 
a  distance,  he  began  to  fear  that  he  had  mistaken  the  course 
of  the  deer.  He  remembered,  however,  that  it  was  pre- 
cisely in  this  direction  that  he  was  bounding  when  he  lost 
sight  of  him,  and  resolved  rather  than  return  on  an  un- 
certainty, that  he  would  await  his  probable  return  to  this 
spot. 

It  was  a  beautiful  glade,  and  a  gentle  streamlet  flowed 
through  it  from  a  spring  beneath  a  large  moss-covered  rock. 
The  chequered  shade  from  the  forest  trees  above,  fell  fit- 


A  VISION.  55 

fully  upon  the  verdant  slope,  and  invited  to  a  momentary 
repose  from  the  fatigues  of  the  chase.  Medwyn  dismounted 
and  throwing  the  bridle  over  a  low  projecting  branch, 
"  scooped  the  brimming  stream,"  and  then  leaned  carelessly 
against  the  mossy  rock,  keeping  his  fusil  near,  however,  to 
be  in  readiness  for  a  surprise,  if  the  deer  should  chance,  as 
was  most  probable,  to  pass  this  secluded  glade. 

In  this  attitude  he  remained  for  some  minutes,  taking  in 
at  a  glance  the  various  objects  around  him,  and  imagining 
the  beauty  of  a  picture  that  might  be  composed  from  them, 
when  he  was  suddenly  startled  by  the  rustling  of  the  leaves 
behind  him.  Quickly,  and  instinctively,  he  laid  his  hand 
on  his  fusil,  and  turned  hastily  around;  but  instead  of  the 
branching  antlers  he  had  anticipated,  a  female  form  pre- 
sented itself  to  his  astonished  view. 

No  creature  of  earth's  mould  could  have  been  more 
beautiful  than  this  unexpected  apparition.  She  had  proba- 
bly not  yet  numbered  sixteen  summers,  and  the  dazzling 
fairness  of  her  complexion  was  rendered  yet  more  striking 
by  the  fresh  air  and  exercise;  her  fair  hair  fell  in  rich  pro- 
fusion over  the  swan-like  neck,  and  a  form  of  the  most 
exquisite  proportions  was  displayed  to  the  greatest  advan- 
tage, by  the  simple  yet  elegant  costume  to  which  it  im- 
parted grace,  instead  of  borrowing  from  it. 

Struck  with  surprise,  and  for  the  moment  almost  doubting 
whether  "  a  vision  so  delightful"  could  indeed  be  a  reality, 
Medwyn  stood  motionless;  until  the  fair  stranger,  who  at 
the  first  moment  had  manifested  a  design  of  retreating  again 
into  the  bosquet  from  which  she  had  emerged,  advanced 
toward  him,  and  with  an  air  of  the  most  winning  grace,  yet 
with  perfect  dignity,  accosted  him. 

"  Pardon  me,"  she  said,  while  a  rising  blush  suffused 
her  cheek,  "  the  liberty  I  take  in  addressing  myself  to  a 


56  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

« 

perfect  stranger;  but  I  have  heedlessly  wandered  alone  in 
the  forest,  and  find  some  difficulty  in  returning  to  its  more 
frequented  paths.  Peihaps  you  could  direct  me  to  the 
grand  allee  which  I  left  a  few  minutes  since,  and  forgot  that 
I  might  lose  my  way  in  these  attractive  shades." 

She  ceased  speaking,  and  Medwyn  listened  for  an  instant, 
before  he  replied  to  her  inquiry,  in  the  hope  of  hearing 
those  silvery  tones  again.  Those  gentle  accents, — those 
dark  blue  eyes, — the  eloquent  blush,  the  timid  smile, — the 
graceful  form,  all,  all  brought  his  loved  Ellen  again  to  his 
view.  Is  it  surprising  that  he  almost  forgot  tliat  the  ques- 
tion of  the  beauteous  stranger  demanded  an  answer,  as  he 
gazed  on  her.  Recovering  himself,  instantly,  however,  he 
stammered  forth  an  apology,  and  respectfully  offered  to  be 
her  guide  to  the  point  which  she  had  indicated. 

They  were  about  to  leave  the  spot,  when  the  rustling  of 
the  leaves,  that  had  before  aroused  Medwyn  from  his  medi- 
tations, was  again  heard,  and  the  huge  antlers  of  a  stag 
peered  from  among  them.  Maddened  by  the  pursuit  of  the 
hunters,  and  already  wounded,  the  furious  animal  dashed 
onward,  precisely  to  the  place  where  stood  the  fair  incog- 
nita. With  a  shriek  of  terror,  she  attempted  to  fly,  but  the 
antlers  already  touched  the  floating  veil,  borne  on  the  breeze 
behind  her,  and  her  foot  at  the  same  instant  became  entan- 
gled in  the  gnarled  root  of  a  neighbouring  oak.  With  the 
speed  of  lightning  Medwyn  rushed  forward,  and  seizing  his 
fusil  with  a  giant's  grasp,  aimed  a  powerful  and  effective 
blow  with  it.  The  infuriated  stag  turned  on  his  assailant, 
and  forsaking  the  object  of  his  first  attack,  returned  the 
blow  with  his  sharp  antlers.  Medwyn  warded  it  off  with 
his  arm,  and  his  next  effort  was  mote  successful.  The  stag 
was  now  withdrawn  to  a  sufficient  distance  from  the  fair 
unknown  to  permit  a  more  appropriate  use  of  his  fusil,  and 


A  VISION.  5? 

in  another  moment  his  once  powerful  enemy  lay  expiring 
at  his  feet,  and  he  received  the  Pinking  form  of  the  beautiful 
stranger  in  his  arms.  All  this  occurred  in  far  less  time  than 
it  has  required  to  relate  it;  and  as  Medwyn  was  about  to 
bear  his  lovely  charge  to  the  rivulet,  and  to  revive  her  with 
its  waters,  she  recovered,  and  ths  eloquent  blood  that  had 
forsaken  her  cheek,  tinged  it  with  a  bright  flush. 

"  Unfortunate  as  imprudent!"  she  murmured  to  herself. 
"  Why  is  it  that  others  are  always  exempt  from  dangers, 
while  I,  I  cannot  even  escape  for  a  moment  from  the 
miserable  thraldom  to  which  I  am  subjected,  without  the 
occurrence  of  something  that  threatens  my  very  existence. 
But  oh!"  she  continued,  glancing  at  Medwyn,  with  a 
mingled  expression  of  terror  and  solicitude,  "  how  selfish  I 
am  to  think  only  of  myself.  You  are  wounded, — see!  the 
blood  is  flowing  freely  from  your  arm!" 

Medwyn  in  vain  assured  her  that  the  wound  was  trifling. 

"  It  is  in  my  cause,"  she  continued,  "  that  you  are  losing 
these  precious  drops, — it  is  ever  thus, — I  am  doomed  to 
misfortune,  and  those  who  would  rescue  me  from  it  must 
do  so  at  the  risk  of  their  own  lives.  And  even  now,  as 
much  as  I  owe  you — my  preserver — my  deliverer — my 
rigorous  destiny  forbids  me  from  acknowledging  the  obliga- 
tion. I  dare  not  permit  the  event  that  has  just  occurred  to 
be  known,  for  indiscretion  is,  in  the  eyes  of  those  who 
watch  over  me,  synonymous  with  crime.  May  I  then  beg 
you  to  conduct  me  a  few  steps  on  my  way,  and  implore  you 
not  to  make  mention  of  this  adventure.  Perhaps,  at  a  more 
suitable  time,  I  may  remind  you  of  it.  You  are  not,  per- 
haps, so  devout  a  believer  in  reliques  as  I  am,"  she  con- 
tinued with  a  sweet  smile,  "  but  here  is  one  that  will  aid  in 
your  recovery  from  the  injury  you  have  just  received." 

She  took  from  a  chain  of  gold  around  her  neck,  a  superb 
5 


58  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

cross  of  the  purest  brilliants.  "  Keep  this,"  she  added,  "  as 
a  souvenir  of  one,  who,  though  ever  unfortunate,  is  not 
ungrateful.  There  may  come  a  day  when  you  will  recog- 
nise the  hand  that  offers  it,  but  for  the  present  I  feel  assured 
that  you  will  grant  my  request,  and  bury  the  events  of  the 
morning  in  oblivion." 

Medwyn  placed  the  splendid  relique  in  his  bosom,  and 
even  Ellen  might  have  forgiven  him  for  touching  with  his 
lips  the  delicate  hand  that  offered  it.  In  a  few  minutes  they 
reached  the  spot  to  which  she  had  requested  him  to  con- 
duct her. 

"  I  can  hardly  resolve  to  obey  your  commands,  and  'leave 
your  fair  side  all  unguarded,'  lady,"  said  Medwyn  as  she 
bade  him  farewell.  "  Were  not  your  orders  so  peremptory, 
I  should  feel  it  almost  a  duty  to  accompany  you,  notwith- 
standing your  prohibition." 

"  Yet  you  must  leave  me,  and  that  promptly,"  said  the 
incognita,  in  an  agitated  voice.  "And  even  now  it  may  be 
too  late!"  she  continued;  "  look  there,  and  judge  how  closely 
my  movements  are  watched!" 

Medwyn  looked  in  the  direction  in  which  she  pointed, 
and  perched  on  the  lower  branch  of  a  neighbouring  tree,  he 
beheld  a  figure,  which  rather  resembled  one  of  the  monkey 
tribe,  than  an  animal  of  the  human  species.  A  more  scruti- 
nizing view,  however,  revealed  the  diminutive  proportions 
of  a  half-grown  lad,  richly  habited  in  green  velvet,  orna- 
mented with  a  profusion  of  gold  lace.  The  visage  was 
almost  of  an  ebony  hue,  and  contrasted  strangely  with  a  row 
of  ivory  teeth,  which  he  fully  displayed,  on  finding  himself 
observed. 

"  Come  down  from  thy  perch,  bird  of  darkness,"  said 
the  lady,  "  and  dare  not  on  thy  life  reveal  that  thou  hast  seen 
me  this  morning.  It  is  thy  gracious  mistress  that  hath  sent 


A  VISION.  59 

thee  on  this  errand.  But  come, — thou  shalt  for  once  be  my 
page,  Zamore.  Under  such  guidance,"  she  continued  with 
a  smile,  "  must  I  return; — but  I  shall  find  means  to  silence 
this  sapajou.  Adieu!  remember  my  entreaty." 

She  walked  on  rapidly,  and  was  soon  lost  to  view,  and 
Medwyn  returned  to  the  glade  where  he  had  recently  van- 
quished his  unexpected  and  formidable  foe. 

He  had  hardly  reached  the  spot,  when  the  cor  de  chasse 
/  burst  forth,  the  huntsmen  rushed  through  the  thicket,  and 
surrounded  the  lifeless  stag  which  lay  stretched  on  the 
sward,  while  they  gazed  on  Medwyn,  who  was  preparing 
to  remount  his  horse,  though  the  blood  still  flowed  from  his 
wounded  arm. 

"  Why,  here  has  been  an  adventure,*doubtless,"  said  de 
Vaudemont,  as  he  examined  the  animal,  and  then  glanced  at 
Medwyn.  "  And  you  have  not  even  taken  the  precaution 
to  cut  his  throat.  You  are  not  so  good  a  sportsman  as  I 
thought  you  would  prove,  after  all,  Medwyn.  You  see  I 
must  say  something  to  lighten  the  chagrin  of  his  majesty, 
who  is  just  now  within  hearing,"  he  continued  in  a  low  voice, 
"  for  he  cannot  brook  a  rival  in  his  favourite  amusement, 
and  your  favour  at  court  would  have  been  much  greater  but 
for  this  contre-temps." 

"  I  have  not  achieved  my  victory  without  some  loss,  how- 
ever," replied  Medwyn,  smiling,  as  he  pointed  to  the  ruddy 
stains  on  his  hunting  dress.  "  This  may  be  some  atone- 
ment— as  a  proof  that  I  acted  in  self-defence,  and  I  may, 
perhaps,  stand  excused  from  paying  farther  court  to-day.  I 
cannot  return  to  the  chateau  in  my  present  unsuitable  garb." 

"  Make  your  apology,  then."  said  de  Vaudemont,  "  and  I 
shall  have  a  good  excuse  in  accompanying  you;  for  in  truth 
the  whole  pleasure  of  an  excursion  to  Fontainbleau  is 
now  over,  and  the  rest  will  be,  as  I  know,  from  sad  expe- 
rience, an  intolerable  bore." 


60  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

Medwyn  adopted  the  suggestion,  and  alleging  his  wound- 
ed arm  as  a  reason  for  his  immediate  return  to  the  metro- 
polis, the  excuse  was  readily  accepted  by  his  majesty,  who 
had  now  made  his  appearance. 

While  he  was  speaking,  the  diminutive  and  sablc-visaged 
page,  whom  Medwyn  had  encountered  half  an  hour  before, 
suddenly  sprung  from  the  thicket  behind  them.  The  king 
started  at  this  unexpected  apparition. 

"  How  now,  Zamore,"  he  exclaimed,  "  what  mak'st  thou 
here?" 

"  A  letter  from  my  gracious  mistress,  please  your  ma- 
jesty," replied  the  page,  offering  a  paper  tied  with  silk,  and 
sealed  with  his  own  emblem,  the  fleur  de  lis,  while  at  the 
same  moment  he  made  an  almost  oriental  prostration  at  the 
king's  feet. 

"  Stand  back,  imp  of  darkness,"  said  his  majesty,  "  and 
frighten  not  my  horse  with  thy  ugly  visage." 

The  page  retreated,  but  in  doing  so,  he  cast  a  furtive 
glance  at  Medwyn,  and  with  a  look  of  recognition,  again 
displaying  his  full  row  of  ivory  teeth  in  contrast  with  his 
ebony  visage,  nodded  his  head,  and  disappeared. 

Quickly  as  this  glance  was  bestowed,  it  was  observed  by 
the  king,  who,  with  a  clouded  brow,  received  the  parting 
homage  of  Medwyn  and  de  Vaudemont. 

'*  Unfortunate  fellow  that  you  are!"  said  the  latter,  when 
fairly  out  of  hearing;  "  what  can  be  the  meaning  of  the  look 
of  recognition  that  ourang-outang  bestowed  on  you?  Why 
the  king  has  been  stung  to  death  by  the  libels  upon  his  fair 
inamorata  already,  and  it  is  no  wonder  he  should  be  enrage 
at  an  apparently  secret  understanding  between  her  favourite 
page  and  a  handsome  cavalier  like  yourself.  I  fear  sadly 
that  this  morning's  work  has  undone  all  that  your  prepos- 
sessing figure  effected  the  first  day  of  your  appearance  at 
Versailles." 


A  VISION.  61 

*'  In  a  multitude  of  rivals,  as  well  as  counsellors,  there 
might  be  safety,"  returned  Medwyn,  laughing,  "  though  I 
have  never  seen  the  object  of  his  idolatry,  and  cannot  be 
numbered  among  them.  But,"  he  continued,  in  a  graver 
tone,  "  I  meant  not  to  speak  with  levity  of  what  may  well 
raise  a  blush  on  the  cheeks  even  of  the  frequenters  of  the 
court  of  Versailles.  My  only  marvel  is,  that  an  insulted 
nation  should  so  long  have  submitted  to  such  guidance. 
But  the  vengeance  of  heaven  must,  and  will  overtake  the 
actors  in  these  scenes  of  profligacy  and  crime.  The  justice 
of  an  offended  God  cannot  be  much  longer  delayed,  and 
may  He,  who  in  wrath  remembers  mercy,  avert  the  calami- 
ties they  may  entail  upon  the  innocent  victims  who  will 
probably  share  their  fate,  though  they  participate  not  in 
their  guilt!" 

De  Vaudemont  was  for  a  few  minutes  silent.  As  Med- 
wyn finished  speaking,  he  was  about  to  make  some  light 
reply,  but  there  was  something  impressive  and  even  solemn 
in  the  words  he  had  just  heard,  that  awoke  a  better  feeling 
in  his  heart. 

"  You  are  grave  to-day,  Medwyn,"  he  said,  "  and  your 
remarks  have,  really,  almost  a  prophetic  tone;  but  it  is  no 
wonder  you  are  somewhat  shocked  at  the  state  of  things 
here.  I  have  rather  more  acquaintance  with  them  than  you 
have,  arid  yet  I  am  not  altogether  reconciled, — reconciled, 
did  I  say? — Alas!  but  a  short  time  has  elapsed  since  I  re- 
garded vice  as  you  now  do." 

He  paused,  and  seemed  struggling  with  some  overpow- 
ering emotion. 

"Medwyn,"  he  continued,  in  an  altered  voice,  "I  was 
not  always  the  thoughtless,  careless  troubadour-courtier 
you  now  behold  me.  There  was  a  time  when  I  should 
have  scorned  the  idle,  and — why  should  I  disguise  it?  the 


62  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

vicious  life  I  now  lead.  la  my  early  youth  I  had  a  pro- 
tector,— a  mentor,  who  trained  me  to  virtue,  and  conse- 
quently to  happiness.  But  he  is  in  his  grave. — Happily  he 
has  not  lived  to  see  the  fruit  of  all  his  tender  cares  blighted 
and  perishing.  He  cannot  now  behold  the  heart,  whose 
young  emotions  were  ever  open  to  his  view,  a  prey  to  '  the 
worm  that  dieth  not.'  Notwithstanding  the  solemn  warn- 
ing I  have  received  concerning  you,  and  a  mysterious  assur- 
ance that  any  confidence  reposed  in  you  will  be  my  death- 
warrant,  there  is  something  that  draws  me  to  you  as  one, 
who,  by  his  superior  wisdom  and  excellence,  might  aid  me  in 
again  finding  the  path  from  which  I  have  so  widely  swerved. 
Promise  me  then,"  he  continued,  grasping  Medwyn's  hand 
with  eagerness,  "  that  you  will  one  day  listen  to  me,  and 
counsel  me.  Not  now, — for  I  have  not  courage  yet  to 
make  you  the  depository  of  my  follies — perhaps  my  crimes. 
But  at  a  future  day,  I  feel  assured  you  will  not  only  hear, 
but  sympathize  with  me." 

As  he  spoke  these  words,  they  reached  the  barriere  of 
the  metropolis,  and  uttering  a  hasty  "adieu,"  he  left  Med- 
wyn  to  meditate  alone  upon  what  he  had  just  heard,  as  well 
as  the  events  of  the  morning. 


THE  MINSTREL. 

"  And  slight  withal  may  be  the  things  which  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  that  it  would  fling 
Aside  for  ever, — it  may  be  a  sound, — 
A  tone  of  music, — summer's  breath,  or  spring, — 
A  flower — a  leaf — the  ocean,  which  may  wound, 
Striking  th'  electric  chain  wherewith  we're  darkly  bound." 

BYRON. 

IN  a  retired  hotel  near  the  Champs  Elysees,  an  apparte- 
ment  had  been  fitted  up  with  that  exquisite  taste  which  dis- 
tinguishes the  artistes  (as  the  inventors  of  Parisian  luxuries 
delight  to  call  themselves)  of  the  metropolis  of  France. 
The  rooms  were  small,  but  each  one  presented  in  its  rich 
tapestry,  its  splendid  gilding,  its  sumptuous  mirrors,  its 
gems  of  sculpture  and  painting,  of  mosaic  and  precious 
marble,  a  model  of  elegance,  and  showed  it,  at  a  glance,  the 
abode  of  opulence  and  luxury.  Costly  flowers  in  the  rarest 
vases,  mingled  their  delicate  odours  with  the  richer  per- 
fumes of  the  east,  and  these,  with  the  harp  and  guitar,  the 
music  and  half-finished  silken  embroidery,  indicated  the 
occasional  presence  of  the  gentler  portion  of  creation. 

It  was  evening,  and  the  lights  were  beginning  to  twinkle 
among  the  trees  of  the  grand  avenue;  but  as  yet  this  apparte- 
ment  was  lighted  only  by  a  single  lamp,  that,  placed  in  the 
centre  room,  shed  its  lustre  feebly  through  the  folding  doors 
into  those  adjoining  it.  The  outline  of  a  slight  and  fragile 
form,  reposing  on  a  sofa  in  the  one  farthest  removed,  was 


64  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

hardly  distinguishable  by  the  faint  light,  but  her  attitude, 
as  she  rested  her  forehead  upon  her  white  slender  fingers, 
the  careless  tresses  of  dark  hair  that  fell  over  them, — the 
paleness  of  the  almost  transparent  cheek,  showed  that  even 
in  this  abode  of  elegance,  sorrow  and  suffering  had  found 
an  entrance. 

A  deep  sigh  seemed  to  be  heaved  from  the  inmost  re- 
cesses of  her  heart,  as  she  pressed  her  hand  more  closely 
to  her  throbbing  brow,  and  with  some  difficulty  arose  from 
her  recumbent  posture,  and  tottered  rather  than  walked  into 
the  adjoining  room.  The  casement  was  partly  open,  and 
she  appeared  to  be  revived  by  the  fresh  evening  breeze  that 
found  its  way  through  it,  and  partially  dispelled  the  rich, 
though  almost  oppressive  atmosphere  by  which  she  had 
been  surrounded. 

She  swept  her  hand  over  the  harp  that  stood  near  the 
window,  and  started  at  the  deep  tremulous  chord  that  re- 
verberated through  the  still  and  solitary  apartment.  Again 
she  touched  the  strings,  and  a  few  notes,  soft,  plaintive,  and 
low,  came  forth  in  exquisite  unison  with  their  full  and  har- 
monious chords. 

"  I  cannot  sing!"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  again  rose,  and 
pushing  the  harp  from  her,  approached  the  open  window 
more  nearly.  "Poor  hapless  bird!"  she  continued,  "  why 
should'st  thou  sing  in  thy  gilded  prison?  Thy  voice  was 
once  sweet  and  joyous  when  it  rung  through  thy  native 
forests  and  hills,  but  now, — now!" —  She  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands,  and  the  tears  that  had  been  restrained 
with  difficulty,  fell  like  rain-drops  over  her  pale  cheek. 

"Yes!"  she  murmured  after  a  few  minutes  pause,  "I 
was  then  happy,  and  it  is  only  in  moments  of  solitude  and 
darkness,  that  I  feel  and  know  what  I  have  lost.  Every 
sweet  scene  of  my  childhood  rises  before  me; — my  hum- 


THE  MINSTREL.  65 

ble  cottage, — tlie  woodland  dell,  where  with  my  youthful 
companions  I  have  carolled  so  blithely,  as  we  returned  from 
our  homely  but  happy  employments.  The  bright  stream 
that  leaped  in  joyous  rills  over  its  rocky  bed, — the  verdant 
meadow, — the  forest  shade, — the  wild  birds  that  gladdened 
my  path  with  their  sweet  notes, — and  oh!  sad,  sad  remem- 
brance! the  friends  I  have  left  in  that  humble  retreat  for  a 
life  of  splendid  misery.  My  father, — my  mother, — alas!" 

The  murmuring  voice  died  away,  and  again  she  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  sobbed  aloud. 

Absorbed  in  her  emotions,  she  heeded  not  an  approach- 
ing footstep,  and  was  aroused  only  by  the  touch  of  a  hand 
upon  her  arm.  She  looked  up  for  an  instant,  and  with  a 
slight  shudder,  again  hid  her  face. 

"  Ismene,  why  this  extravagant  sorrow,"  said  the  deep 
voice  of  the  speaker,  his  tone,  however,  modulated  to  a 
cadence,  apparently  of  unusual  softness.  "  You  are  nervous, 
you  are  ill.  Why  should  you  indulge  in  such  solitude  and 
such  fancies?  The  evening  air  is  fresh  and  balmy,  why 
have  you  not  enjoyed  it?" 

"  Because  nothing  now  can  bring  me  happiness,"  she 
replied.  "  The  fresh  air  of  heaven  that  breathes  coolness 
on  my  burning  brow,  pierces  my  weak  frame,  and  chills 
my  heart.  Yes!"  she  continued,  gazing  upward,  as  a  sin- 
gle star  shone  forth,  and  was  as  suddenly  concealed  from 
her  view  by  a  passing  cloud,  "  even  those  resplendent 
luminaries  that  once  were  wont  to  impart  to  me  their  bright- 
ness and  joy,  now  veil  their  faces  if  I  dare  look  on  them. 
Tell  me,  oh!  tell  me,  thou  beauteous  planet!"  she  exclaimed, 
clasping  her  hands,  and  raising  them  toward  heaven  with 
almost  frantic  eagerness,  as  the  cloud  passed  away,  and  the 
star  again  shone  forth,  "  is  all  hope  lost  to  me?  Shall  I 
never  behold  the  blest  spirits  that  inhabit  thee,  and  the  celes- 


66  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

tial  glory  that  surrounds  them?  May  not  years  of  penitence 
and  suffering  atone  for  days  of  folly  and  of  sin,  and  when 
purified  from  the  stain  of  earth  in  the  furnace  of  affliction, 
may  I  not  become  as  one  of  them?" 

She  paused,  and  her  large  dark  eyes  beamed  with  almost 
supernatural  lustre,  as  they  were  still  riveted  on  the  planet 
she  invoked.  Her  companion  recoiled  as  he  gazed  on  the 
almost  unearthly  expression  of  the  once  lovely  but  now 
faded  face  and  form  before  him.  Recovering  instantly, 
however,  he  said  in  a  tone  of  raillery, 

"  Why  this  is  madness, — absolute  madness,  ma  belle 
Ismene.  This  is  the  consequence  of  lonely  days  and  idle 
fancies.  Be  warned  by  me,  and  permit  not  another  bright 
planet  that  I  could  name,  to  withdraw  its  gentle  beams  from 
the  world  they  should  lighten  with  their  smile.  Look  at 
those  delicate  flowers,  and  remember  they  are  the  emblems 
of  youthful  beauty.  Their  fragrance  and  loveliness  breathe 
a  charm  to-day  that  we  might  seek  in  vain  to-morrow;  is  it 
not  then  fair  to  place  them  where  they  shall  not  blush  un- 
seen, and  where  their  sweetness  shall  not  be  wasted?  Come 
then, — the  gay  world  awaits  but  your  presence  to  begin  its 
revelry;  pleasure  offers  her  golden  cup; — quaff  the  precious 
cordial,  and  it  will  revive  your  drooping  spirits,  and  restore 
the  rose  to  that  pale  cheek."— 

"  It  will  never  bloom  again,"  Ismene  replied,  in  a  tone 
of  despairing  sadness,  as  she  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the 
star  on  which  she  had  been  gazing,  and  again  pressed  her 
hand  on  her  aching  brow.  "  Those  flowers  shadow  forth 
but  too  plainly  the  doom  of  one,  who  like  them  may  once 
have  been  fair  and  bright,  but  which,  plucked  from  the 
parent  stem,  will  droop  and  die  to-morrow,  and  be  *  cast 
like  loathsome  weeds  away.'  Tempt  me  no  longer,  de 
Gourville,  with  thy  golden  chalice,  which  hath  ere  now 


THE  MINSTREL.  67 

brought  poison  to  my  lips; — free  me  from  the  costly  but 
galling  fetters  which  now  bind  me,— give  me  but  a  line 
from  your  hand  to  prove  that  I  have  been  the  victim  of 
treachery  rather  than  the  willing  slave  of  vice,  and  I  will 
release  you  from  the  charge  of  one  whose  charms  are  gone, 
and  whose  spectral  image  will  no  longer  haunt  you.  Grant 
my  request,  and  I  will  return  to  my  humble  home,  and — 
die." 

"  Why,  fair  one,"  replied  de  Gourville,  still  continuing 
his  tone  of  raillery,  "thou  art,  indeed,  sad  and  moody  to- 
night. And  so,  thou  wouldst  have  me  confess  that  the  jolly 
priest  who  united  us,  was  not  so  regularly  in  orders  as  some 
that  wear  a  mitre;  but  at  least  his  head  was  as  cunning  if 
his  heart  were  less  simple  than  many  concealed  beneath  a 
cowl  and  cassock,  and  what  does  it  signify?  You  have  been 
the  gainer; — contrast  the  luxury  and  elegance  by  which  you 
are  surrounded  with  your  former  obscurity  and  indigence, 
and  then  think  if  a  few  scruples  cannot  be  easily  silenced." 

"  A  gainer!"  repeated  Ismene,  while  a  momentary  flush 
stained  her  pale  cheek  with  a  crimson  hue;  "  a  gainer! — 
yes! — I  have  bartered  peace  and  innocence, — and  oh!"  she 
added,  again  clasping  her  hands  in  agony,  "not  only  these, 
but  the  happiness  of  others  that  were  dearer  to  me  than 
life: — these,  have  I  exchanged  for  the  glittering  dross  that 
now  only  serves  to  dazzle  my  fading  vision,  and  remind 
me  of  past  happiness,  and  of  future  retribution.  Give  me 
but  what  I  ask,  de  Gourville,  that  I  may  not  be  spurned 
from  my  poor  old  father's  threshold,  and  I  will  leave  this 
gilded  prison-house,  and  free  you  from  the  presence  of  one, 
who,  I  am  well  aware,  is  now  to  you  an  object  of  suspi- 
cion, if  not  of  hatred." 

The  dark  cloud  that  was  rising  on  the  brow  of  de  Gour- 
ville deepened  to  blackness  as  the  last  words  passed  her 


68  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

lips.  He  approached  her  more  nearly,  and  grasping  her 
slender  arm,  gazed  in  her  face  as  if  he  would  have  read  her 
inmost  soul. 

"  Suspicion!"  he  repeated, — "Ay — and  not  without 
cause.  Thou  hast  thought,  perhaps,  simple  one,  that  thou 
couldst  deceive  me: — but  thou  hast  to  deal  with  one  whose 
sleepless  vigilance  can  easily  baffle  thy  weak  schemes. 
Yes!  thou  art  right.  I  do  mistrust  thee,  woman!  It  was 
my  folly  that  first  brought  my  willing  victim  hither,  and 
permitted  thee  to  discover  the  bond  of  our  intimacy.  But 
thou  wilt  not  dare  lo  warn  him  how  dangerous  he  may  find 
it  to  trifle  with  me,  or  to  reveal  what  our  compact  keeps 
secret.  Thy  own  life,  as  thou  art  well  aware,  as  well  as 
his,  may  be  in  the  issue." 

"  My  life  is  ebbing  fast,"  replied  Ismene,  "  and  I  fear 
not  thy  wrath,  de  Gourville.  There  is  a  dread  on  my  mind 
which  overshadows  all  terror  of  man.  Thy  heart  is  wily, 
and  thy  arm  is  strong, — but  why  should  I  fear  thee?  thou 
canst  but  shorten  the  brief  period  of  my  earthly  existence; 
and  could  I  but  expiate  some  of  my  folly  by  counteracting 
thy  dark  schemes,  I  would  willingly  make  the  poor  sacri- 
fice. But  as  yet  I  have  only  warned  thy  victim,  as  thou 
may'st  well  call  him,  of  his  danger,  in  bestowing  his  confi- 
dence on  one,  who  may,  perhaps,  feel  a  still  deeper  interest 
in  defeating  thy  schemes  than  I  do;  one  who,  perchance, 
without  a  similar  warning  might  have  drawn  thy  vengeance 
upon  his  own  head.  Fear  thee? — no!  treacherous  man! — 
thou  wilt  have  cause  to  fear  me,  when  my  disembodied 
spirit  shall  return  to  haunt  thy  awe-stricken  soul,  and  remind 
thee  of  thy  guilt,  and  of  my  wrongs." 

She  glided  from  the  apartment  as  she  spoke,  and  as  her 
slight  shadowy  form  melted  away  in  the  dim  light,  de  Gour- 
ville's  obdurate  heart  sunk  within  him,  and  despite  his  usual 


THE  MINSTREL.  69 

boldness,  he  shuddered,  as  her  last  words,  though  low  and 
musical,  rung  like  a  death-knell  on  his  ear.  For  a  moment 
he  listened  to  her  retreating  footsteps,  and  then  rushed  from 
the  house. 

He  strode  silently  and  moodily  through  the  gay  throng 
assembled  near  his  dwelling,  nor  stopped  until  he  leached  a 
retired  part  of  the  Champs  Elysees,  where  the  passions  that 
were  boiling  in  his  breast  broke  forth. 

"  Fool!  madman,  that  I  was!"  he  exclaimed, — "  to  trust 
a  woman,  and  one  wronged  and  injured,  with  a  confidence  of 
such  vital  importance  to  me!  True,  she  cannot  live  long  to 
frustrate  my  plans,  but  the  mischief  may  already  be  accom- 
plished. Time  passes,  and  I  must  be  gone.  The  dark 
billows  of  ocean,  with  which  I  have  so  long  been  familiar, 
must  roll  beneath  me  ere  I  again  seek  my  rest.  I  must  away, 
and  that  instantly!" 


' 


A  DECLARATION. 

"  Then  let  the  trial  come!  and  witness  thou 
If  terror  be  upon  me; — only  do  not  thou 
Forsake  me, — oh,  be  thou  ever  near, 
That  I  may  listen  to  thy  sacred  voice!" 

AKENSIDE. 

11 1  was  awe-struck, 
And  as  I  pass'd  I  worshipp'd." 

COMUS. 

THE  resolution  quickly  formed  was  as  rapidly  executed, 
and  favouring  winds  and  waves  seconded  the  wishes  of  de 
Gourville.  But  few  days  elapsed  before  he  was  again  hover- 
ing near  Lansdale.  This  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  been 
in  that  vicinity  since  the  departure  of  Medwyn,  and  de 
Gourville  had  succeeded  in  his  ardent  wish  of  forming  a 
slight  personal  acquaintance  with  Sir  Frederick  Lansdale 
and  his  lovely  daughter. 

The  passion  he  felt  for  Ellen,  and  which  has  already  been 
hinted  by  his  own  words,  was  of  far  less  recent  date. 
Many  months  before  the  present  period,  he  had  seen  her, 
and  as  he  said,  worshipped  her  as  a  planet  that  he  could  never 
hope  to  approach.  Strange  that  a  heart  so  obdurate,  and 
ordinarily  so  cold  and  selfish,  should  have  been  touched  by 
a  sentiment  as  sacred  as  that  of  love;  but  this  marvel  had 
been  effected  by  the  angelic  loveliness  of  Ellen  Lansdale. 
He  had  watched  her  movements,— he  had  waylaid  her 


A  DECLARATION.  71 

path, — in  her  morning  walks,  in  her  evening  rides, — even 
in  the  house  of  God,  which  otherwise  would  not  have  been 
profaned  by  his  presence,  he  apparently  did  homage,  not  to 
worship  his  Creator,  but  the  earthly  object  of  his  idolatry. 
True,  he  would  rather  have  gazed  on  her  beauty  in  any 
other  than  this  hallowed  place,  for  as  he  marked  the  holy 
expression  of  her  countenance,  now  softened  in  penitential 
tenderness,  now  radiant  with  the  exalted  hopes  awakened 
by  the  promises  of  future  bliss, — as  he  heard  her  soft  voice 
mingling  in  the  chant,  and  hymning  the  praises  of  Him,  who 
had  created  and  redeemed  her; — it  reminded  him  but  too 
forcibly  of  the  immeasurable  distance  between  them,  and 
his  heart  died  within  him. 

Still  he  indulged  in  that  "  hope  that  comes  to  all,"  though 
he  had  never  received  the  slightest  encouragement  either 
from  Sir  Frederick  Lansdale  or  his  daughter  even  to  continue 
the  visits  he  had  occasionally  made  them.  Always  courteous 
in  their  manner  towards  him,  there  was  yet  something  of 
coldness,  and  what  might  almost  have  been  termed  hauteur 
in  that  very  kindness,  which  his  knowledge  of  the  world 
but  too  plainly  told  him,  was  intended  to  keep  his  advances 
as  well  as  himself  at  a  distance;  and  the  hopes  he  indulged 
were  founded  more  on  the  advantages  he  expected  to  derive 
from  the  force  of  circumstances,  than  from  any  merit  of 
his  own. 

Bold,  daring,  and  insolent,  in  the  circle  in  which  he  was 
accustomed  to  move,  his  character  was  altogether  changed 
when  within  the  magic  influence  of  the  lovely  being  who 
had  so  completely  fascinated  him,  and  his  manner  then 
became  timid  and  irresolute.  Often  when  the  shadows  of 
evening  obscured  his  path,  and  screened  him  from  observa- 
tion, he  would  approach  the  dwelling  of  the  idolized  but 
almost  dreaded  object  of  his  worship,  and  in  moody  silence, 


72  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

pace  to  and  fro,  while  he  endeavoured  to  summon  cournje 
to  enter.  Often  before  he  ventured  to  approach,  would  he 
watch  the  lights  from  the  windows,  and  spend  hours  in 
picturing  the  fair  image  on  which  his  fancy  loved  to  dwell. 
But  then  would  come  the  vivid  contrast  of  the  peace  and 
innocence  which  reigned  in  that  Eden,  and  the  scenes  of 
profligacy  and  turmoil  in  which  his  life  had  habitually  been 
passed, — and  when  he  thought  of  the  purity  of  that  gentle 
creature,  which  awed  while  it  fascinated  him,  partaking  less 
of  earth  than  Heaven,  in  comparison  with  the  passions  that 
raged  in  his  own  dark  soul,  the  reflection  was  madness, — 
and  striking  his  hand  on  his  breast  as  if  he  would  have 
driven  forth  the  legion  of  evil  spirits  that  dwelt  within  it,  he 
would  silently  retire,  without  even  seeking  admission  to  her 
presence. 

It  was,  therefore,  amid  a  variety  of  conflicting  emotions 
that  he  presented  himself  on  that  threshold,  on  the  evening 
succeeding  that  of  his  return  from  the  continent;  nor  were 
they  diminished  by  the  reply  of  the  domestic  who  answered 
his  summons,  and  informed  him  that  Sir  Frederick  Lans- 
dale  was  at  that  moment  absent,  but  that  his  daughter  was 
at  home.  With  a  faltering  step  he  followed  the  servant 
who  conducted  him  to  the  drawing-room.  The  door  was 
partly  open,  and  he  had  time  to  glance  within  it  before  his 
name  was  announced. 

It  was  at  that  hour  when  the  day  is  drawing  to  a  close, 
and  "  parlour  twilight"  invites  to  meditation,  rather  than 
encourages  the  continuance  of  any  occupation,  however 
agreeable  it  may  be.  Apparently,  however,  Ellen  had 
found  her's  unusually  interesting,  for  the  book  which 
she  was  reading,  absorbed  her  whole  attention.  A  light 
stand,  on  which  were  thrown  a  few  roses,  the  last  of  the 
season,  had  been  removed  to  the  window,  as  if  to  catch  the 


A  DECLARATION.  73 

faint  rays  of  the  parting  day,  and  on  it  was  placed  her  book. 
One  fair  cheek  rested  on  her  hand,  and  her  downcast  eyes 
were  riveted  on  the  page  before  her. 

She  started  from  her  ?ttitude  of  fixed  attention,  as  the 
servant  announced  a  visitor,  and  rose  from  her  seat,  with  a 
glance  of  inquiry  directed  to  the  door,  and  de  Gourville 
flattered  himself  that  some  appearance  of  agitation  marked 
her  manner  when  she  heard  his  name,  and  as  she  cour- 
teously returned  his  formal  and  constrained  salutation.  There 
was  something,  however,  in  the  quiet  and  lady-like  dignity 
of  her  air  that  chilled  his  hopes,  and  wounded  his  pride; 
and  when  she  raised  her  blue  eyes  to  his  face,  with  a  look 
of  mingled  surprise  and  inquiry,  the  glance  asked  as  plainly 
as  words  could  have  done,  what  could  be  his  object  in  thus 
intruding  on  her  presence  in  so  unwonted  a  manner? 

"  I  regret  that  my  father  is  absent  this  evening,  Mr. 
Elford,"  she  said,  as  she  gracefully  offered  him  a  seat, 
which  her  visitor  perceived,  however,  was  removed  to  a 
very  inconvenient  distance  from  the  one  she  resumed. 
"  Your  visit,"  she  added,  "  was,  doubtless,  intended  for 
him,  and  he  will  return  soon.  I  will  order  lights,  and  you 
will,  I  doubt  not,  find  in  this  new  publication,  in  which  I 
have  been  deeply  interested,  an  agreeable  resource  during 
the  half  hour  that  will  probably  elapse  before  his  return:" 
and  she  was  about  to  ring  the  bell — 

"  Pardon  me,  Miss  Lansdale,"  said  her  guest,  rising  as 
if  to  possess  himself  of  the  book  thus  offered,  though  in 
reality  to  approach  more  nearly  to  the  fair  hand  that  held 
it,  "  but  permit  me  to  beg  that  you  will  first  allow  me  a 
few  minutes  conversation  with  you." 

De  Gourville  was  not  mistaken  now  when  he  thought  he 
observed  some  agitation  in  her  manner.     She  looked  sur- 
prised and  perplexed,  but  politely  acceding  to  his  request, 
6 


74  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

again  took  the  seat  she  had  left,  and  silently  awaited  the 
communication  he  was  about  to  make. 

"  I  have  just  returned  from  the  continent,"  he  began, 
«  and"— 

Ellen  started,  and  even  by  that  faint  light  he  perceived 
that  she  turned  pale. 

"  It  is  then  as  I  feared,"  she  said,  "  and  you  have  kindly 
come  to  warn  us  of  some  evil  tidings,  that  may  reach  us 
unexpectedly. — Do  not,  I  pray  you,"  she  added,  clasping 
her  hands, — "  do  not  keep  me  in  suspense.  We  have 
friends  there, — very  dear  friends,  from  whom  we  have  no 
recent  tidings.  Something  terrible,  perhaps,  has  occurred!" 

She  paused  and  awaited  his  reply  in  breathless  alarm. 

"  Calm  your  fears,  Miss  Lansdale,"  said  de  Gourville. 
"  Nothing,  that  I  am  aware  of,  has  happened,  that  should 
agitate  you  thus.  Happy,  thrice  happy  are  the  friends 
whose  welfare  is  a  source  of  such  deep  solicitude  on  your 
part!  What  sacrifice  would  I  not  make,  to  awaken  such 
emotion?"  he  continued,  with  a  deep,  and  perhaps  an  in- 
voluntary sigh.  "  But  if  among  those  friends  are  included, 
as  I  presume,  Lord  Belmore  and  his  son,  I  have  the  plea- 
sure to  inform  you  that  his  lordship  has  entirely  recovered 
from  his  recent  illness,  and  that  both  are  in  the  enjoyment 
of  excellent  health,  and  basking  in  the  smiles  of  court 
favour." 

It  was  fortunate  for  Ellen  that  the  light  in  the  apartment 
was  too  dim  to  permit  her  visitor  to  read  her  thoughts  fully 
in  her  ingenuous  countenance.  But  he  yet  perceived  the 
deep  blush  that  suffused  her  cheek,  and  an  expression 
of  vexation,  at  having  permitted  one,  almost  a  stranger  to 
her,  to  draw  forth  the  thoughts  that  were  passing  in  her 
mind.  She  sat  silent  and  perplexed,  and  a  pause  of  some 
awkwardness  ensued  until  de  Gourvile  resumed. 


A  DECLARATION.  75 

"  I  regret,"  he  said,  "  that  Miss  Lansdale  should  suppose 
that  I  can  have  no  other  motives  in  presenting  myself  here, 
than  those  she  has  been  pleased  to  indicate,  though  it  would 
certainly  be  my  duty  to  pay  my  respects  to  her  father,  who 
has  shown  me  such  courtesy,  and  a  pleasure  it  could  not 
fail  to  be,  to  remove  any  fears  from  her  mind.  But  my 
motive  was  far  different.  I  came" — and  he  paused  as  if 
summoning  resolution  to  proceed — "  because  it  was  impos- 
sible to  restrain  the  emotions  with  which  my  heart  is  full. 
I  came, — thus  to  kneel  at  your  feet,— to  declare  my  pas- 
sion,— to  tell  you  that  I  worship, — that  I  adore  you!" 

Had  a  thunderbolt  from  a  clear  sky  fallen  near  her,  it 
would  hardly  have  surprised  Ellen  more  than  this  unex- 
pected declaration  from  one  whom  she  had  hitherto  regarded 
in  the  light  of  almost  a  perfect  stranger. 

"  Yes,"  he  continued  in  a  low  but  impassioned  tone — 
"  beautiful  and  angelic  creature!  Thou  to  whom  in  imagi- 
nation, I  have  so  often  breathed  my  vows!  I  come  to  offer 
thee  the  homage  of  a  heart,  which  until  now  hath  never 
known  the  influence  of  love, — of  a  soul,  on  which  thy  pure 
image  is  so  deeply  graven,  that  I  would  baiter  all  hope  of 
heaven  for  thy  smile.  Ellen  Lansdale,  I  repeat  I  worship, 
I  adore  thee!" 

The  astonishment  excited  by  his  first  declaration  was 
heightened  by  the  passionate  fervour  with  which  these  last 
words  were  uttered.  Ellen  trembled,  and  the  blood  forsook 
her  cheek,  but  making  an  effort  to  recover  her  self-posses- 
sion, she  replied  with  dignified  calmness,  "  These  are 
expressions  as  unsuitable  for  me  to  hear,  as  for  you  to  utter, 
Mr.  Elford,  and  I  cannot  disguise  the  surprise  it  occasions 
me  to  hear  such  language  addressed  to  me  by  one  who  is 
almost  a  stranger.  Rise,  I  entreat  you,  from  that  humilia- 
ting posture,  appropriate  only  to  the  worship  of  the  Great 


76  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

Creator,  and  offer  not  that  homage  to  a  mortal,  which  is 
due  only  to  him." 

"A  mortal!"  exclaimed  de  Gourville,  with  increasing 
vehemence,  "  say,  rather,  an  angel  that  hath  strayed  from 
her  own  bright  sphere  to  illumine  this  dark  world  by  the  light 
of  her  presence." — "  Stay" — he  continued,  "  I  implore  you 
to  stay  and  hear  me;  permit  me  only  to  prove  the  disinte- 
restedness of  my  affection,  and  then  if  I  offend  you,  I  will 
be  gone.  Stay  only  one  moment,"  he  supplicated,  "  and  I 
will  not  renew  the  subject  that  has  displeased  you,  without 
your  consent.  The  communication  I  shall  make,  deeply 
concerns  your  father." 

At  the  mention  of  this  revered  name  Ellen  paused,  and 
the  determination  she  had  evidently  formed  to  leave  the 
room,  was  shaken. 

"  On  that  condition  alone,"  she  said,  "I  will  grant  your 
request.  But  I  cannot  remain  longer,  to  listen  to  your  first 
expressions,  which  I  must  confess,  not  only  surprised,  but 
shocked  me."  And  she  again  took  her  seat  on  the  nearest 
sofa. 

"  My  task  is  indeed  a  difficult  one,"  said  de  Gourville, 
"  but  I  will  endeavour  to  fulfil  it  rather  than  be  thus 
abruptly  bereft  of  your  presence.  Nay,"  he  continued, 
observing  her  increasing  paleness,  "  do  not  fear  that  I  will 
again  awaken  the  agitation  I  have  so  unfortunately  caused. 
My  communication  shall  be  brief.  I  have  come  hither  not 
only  to  declare  the  sentiments  I  have  just  uttered,  but  to 
save  your  father  from  ruin; — and  to  offer  to  his  now  por- 
tionless daughter  my  heart,  my  hand,  my  fortune; — to 
restore  him  to  his  possessions,  which  are  now  mine,  and 
which  I  cannot  enjoy,  unless  his  lovely  daughter  will  con- 
sent to  share  them  with  me.  I  am  aware,"  he  added,  low- 
ering his  voice  to  a  softer  cadence,  "  that  time  may  be 


A  DECLARATION.  77 

requisite  for  the  dissolution  of  other  ties,  which  may  have 
been  previously  formed,  bat  even  in  this,  ray  disinterested- 
ness may  be  proved.  I  have  an  intimate  acquaintance  with 
Lord  Belmore,  and  he  has  given  me  permission  to  repeat 
the  sentiment  I  have  often  heard  him  utter,  that  his  son 
should  never,  with  his  consent,  wed  a  portionless  bride. 
Nay,  more,  he  has  every  reason  to  believe  that  his  son  con- 
curs with  him  in  this  sentiment,  and  that  amid  the  brilliant 
scenes,  and  fascinating  gaieties,  by  which  he  is,  at  present, 
surrounded,  former  attractions,  and  former  attachments  have 
been  forgotten." 

He  paused,  and  a  momentary  flush  of  indignation  kindled 
on  Ellen's  cheek,  as  she  was  about  to  deny  the  unworthy 
charge.  The  words  were  rising  to  her  lips, — but  her 
fears  whispered  that  it  might,  alas!  be  too  true. — Why  else, 
the  strange,  cold  silence  that  Medwyn  had  observed  since 
their  separation?  No  line, — no  word,  had  ever  reached 
her  from  him;  her  father's  kind  tetters  all  disregarded, — not 
a  word  to  assure  her  that  she  was  still  remembered.  She 
had  already  experienced  that  "  hope  deferred  maketh  the 
heart  sick,"  and  now,  even  that  hope  was  to  be  blighted; 
and  despite  her  effort  to  believe  that  the  whole  was  perhaps 
a  fabrication  designed  to  further  the  suit  to  which  she  had 
been  an  unwilling  listener,  she  felt  something  like  convic- 
tion force  itself  on  her  mind.  The  mingled  emotions 
awakened  by  these  strange  communications,  and  the  yet 
stranger  manner  in  which  they  had  been  made,  entirely 
overpowered  her.  The  blood  rushed  in  a  torrent  to  her 
heart, — her  head  leaned  heavily  against  the  casement  near 
which  she  was  sitting,  and  all  consciousness  forsook  her. 

De  Gourville  sprung  forward,  and  throwing  open  the 
window  to  admit  the  fresh  air,  supported  her  head  on  the 
pillow  of  the  sofa  on  which  she  reclined.  What  were  not 


78  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

his  feelings  as  he  gazed  on  this  beauteous  image  of  death! 
what  would  he  not  have  given  to  touch  with  his  lips  that 
marble  brow  or  the  pale  pure  cheek!  but  he  dared  not: — 
his  dark  spirit  felt  and  owned  that  it  would  have  been  pro- 
fanatioli, — sacrilege; — he  dared  not  even  'touch  the  white 
hand  that  lay  lifeless  by  her  side. 

A  deep  sigh  that  seemed  to  bring  relief  to  her  oppressed 
heart,  soon  betokened  returning  animation.  She  passed  her 
hand  feebly  over  her  forehead,  as  if  to  aid  her  recollection 
of  the  events  that  had  just  occurred.  De  Gourville  had 
withdrawn  to  a  respectful  distance,  and  no  trace  remained 
of  the  aid  he  had  rendered  her,  but  the  open  casement, 
through  which  the  cold  evening  air  blew  freshly,  and 
speedily  revived  her.  She  rose,  and  pleading  sudden  indis- 
position, was  about  to  leave  the  room,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  Sir  Frederick  Lansdale  entered. 

Happily  for  his  paternal  solicitude,  the  gloom  of  the 
apartment  did  not  permit  him  to  observe  the  paleness  or 
the  agitation  of  his  daughter.  He  approached  the  spot 
where  she  stood,  and  gently  chid  her  for  her  imprudence 
in  exposing  herself  to  the  chilling  influence  of  the  night  air. 

•«  You  have  forgotten,  my  dear  child,"  he  said,  "  that  you 
were  not  well  this  morning;  why  do  you  thus  run  the  risk  of 
increasing  your  indisposition?  your  hand  is  cold  and  trem- 
bling, and  this  room  seems  to  me  as  comfortless  as  dark." 

He  had  said  these  words  before  he  perceived  de  Gour- 
ville, and  immediately  apologized  for  permitting  his  anx- 
iety concerning  his  daughter's  health  to  make  him  appa- 
rently negligent  of  the  rules  of  good  breeding.  "  You  will 
find  it  warmer  in  the  library,  my  love,"  he  continued  to 
his  daughter;  "  and," — he  added,  lowering  his  voice,  so 
that  his  words  reached  her  ear  alone,  "  I  will  be  there  as 
soon  as  this  visit  is  over." 


A  DECLARATION.  79 

Ellen  needed  not  this  hint  to  make  her  escape,  and  she 
thankfully  availed  herself  of  her  father's  permission  to  retire. 
The  entrance  of  lights  and  a  fresh  supply  of  fuel,  diffused 
an  air  of  more  cheerfulness  through  the  room,  and  as  Sir 
Frederick  Lansdale  drew  his  arm-chair  toward  the  fire,  he 
invited  his  guest  to  occupy  the  one  on  the  other  side. 

"  I  am  fortunate  in  receiving  a  visit  from  you  this  even- 
ing, Mr.  Elford,"  he  said,  "  as  I  have  been,  though  unsuc- 
cessfully, to  seek  you.  I  have,  for  some  time  past,  been 
anxious  to  inform  you  of  my  determination  respecting  the 
papers  you  showed  me,  and  copies  of  which,  you  placed  in 
my  hands,  but  your  absence  from  the  country  has  hitherto 
prevented  me  from  doing  so.  I  have  examined  them  with 
the  care  their  importance  demanded,  and  have  consulted 
with  others,  who  are  better  skilled  than  myself  in  these 
matters.  The  result  of  my  own  reflections  as  well  as  their 
opinion,  has  led  me  to  admit  the  validity  of  your  claim.  I 
cannot  doubt  my  brother's  writing,  and  the  witnesses  who 
attest  his  will  are  known  to  me  as  honourable  men,  though 
they  are  very  far  distant.  By  engaging  in  a  vexatious  suit, 
which  would,  at  last,  probably  be  determined  against  me,  I 
should  only  plunge  myself  into  deeper  embarrassments,  and 
be  deprived  of  the  remnant  of  my  property  here.  You  may, 
therefore  consider  this  estate  as  your  own,  and  I  shall  take 
steps,  immediately,  to  put  you  in  possession  of  it — " 

"  It  would  be  a  source  of  the  deepest  mortification  to  me, 
Sir  Frederick  Lansdale,"  replied  de  Gourville,  "  if  I  should 
be  the  unfortunate  cause  of  your  abandonment  of  a  home  to 
which  you  are  doubtless  attached.  No, — there  are  other 
means  of  adjusting  this  important  litigation,  which  may 
preserve  you  from  such  an  unnecessary  trial,  and  my  con- 
science from  the  overwhelming  remorse  I  should  feel  in 


80  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

being  the  unwilling  instrument  of  such  a  sacrifice.     Sir 
Frederick  Lansdale,  you  have  a  daughter" — 

Sir  Frederick  started,  and  de  Gourville's  keen  eye  per- 
ceived that  his  still  fine  form  became  more  erect,  and  a 
cloud  overshadowed  his  brow.  He  was  silent  fora  moment, 
and  then  said, 

*'  It  would  be  affectation  in  me,  if  I  were  to  pretend  that 
I  do  not  understand  your  allusion,  Mr.  Elford;  and  I  feel 
grateful  for  the  kindness  that  suggested  it.  You  merit  my 
acknowledgements  for  your  disinterestedness,  but  it  is 
useless  to  pursue  your  suggestion  farther." 

"Perhaps  if  you  were  aware  of  some  circumstances, 
that  have  recently  come  to  my  knowledge,  Sir  Frederick, 
you  would  not,  at  least,  refuse  me  the  privilege  of  farther 
explanation." 

His  host  looked  impatient  and  vexed,  but  with  his  usual 
courtesy  yielded  to  his  demand. 

41  Then,"  continued  de  Gourville,  "  I  will  only  take  the 
liberty  of  repeating  what  I  believe  and  know  to  be  the 
sentiment  of  Lord  Belmore  with  regard  to  his  son.  The 
engagement  contracted  by  him  was  with  the  heiress  of 
Lansdale" — 

"  It  is  unnecessary  to  add  more,"  said  Sir  Frederick 
Lansdale,  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  while  his 
eye  flashed  with  indignation.  "  But  Lord  Belmore  might 
have  spared  himself  the  trouble  of  sending,  and  me  the 
pain  of  receiving  such  a  message  through  a  third  person. 
Humiliating  as  the  loss  of  fortune  may  be,  it  will  never 
deprive  me  of  a  proper  degree  of  self-respect,  and  there  is 
no  danger  that  the  fulfilment  of  any  engagement  previously 
made  will  be  insisted  on.  But  my  daughter,  as  well  as 
myself,  will  ere  long,  be  too  far  removed,  to  alarm  his 
paternal  anxieties,  or  to  encourage  the  advances  of  his 


A  DECLARATION.  81 

friends.  It  has  pleased  his  majesty,  who  has  heard  of  my 
complicated  misfortunes,  to  offer  me  large  and  valuable 
possessions  in  the  western  world,  which  are  at  his  disposal, 
and  I  have  unhesitatingly  accepted  the  offer.  I  have 
survived  most  of  my  friends  here,  and  as  it  appears  from 
your  communications,  as  well  as  other  circumstances,  out- 
lived some  friendships  that  I  would  willingly  have  carried 
with  me  to  my  grave.  I  have,  therefore,  every  inducement 
to  seek  another  home,  and  with  the  blessing  of  divine 
providence,  I  shall  do  so  without  farther  delay." 

The  astonishment  of  de  Gourville  at  this  unexpected 
revelation,  may  be  better  imagined  than  described.  A 
movement  so  destructive  of  all  his  schemes,  had  never  once 
entered  his  imagination,  busy  as  it  ever  was.  He  saw,  in 
the  cold,  and  almost  haughty  manner  in  which  his  advances 
had  been  met  by  Sir  Frederick  Lansdale,  and  the  repulsion, 
and  even  terror  they  had  awakened  in  his  daughter,  a 
sufficient  cause  of  alarm;  but  this  plan,  so  calmly  and 
positively  announced,  that  he  could  not  doubt  the  resolution 
of  his  host  to  carry  it  into  execution,  brought  with  it  the 
death-warrant  of  all  his  hopes.  He  felt  that  it  would  be 
worse  than  useless  to  attempt  any  argument  against  it,  and 
that  if  he  were  destined  to  succeed,  it  must  be  by  soma 
other  means  than  those  he  had  already  used.  The  conver- 
sation became  embarrassing  to  him,  and  evidently  irksome 
to  his  host.  He  soon  took  his  leave,  and  retired,  to  brood 
over  new  schemes,  and  Sir  Frederick  immediately  fulfilled 
the  promise  he  had  made  his  daughter  of  following  her  to 
the  library. 

Ellen  was  sitting  at  a  table  near  the  fire,  apparently 
engaged  in  reading;  but  the  hand  that  rested  on  her  brow 
was  closely  pressed  to  it,  and  her  father's  watchful  eye  soon 
detected  the  attitude,  as  well  as  the  expression  of  deep  and 


82  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

painful  meditation.  She  remained  motionless  until  he 
approached,  and  laid  his  hand  gently  on  hers.  Startled 
from  her  reverie,  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  up  in  his 
face,  as  he  bent  over  her,  and  then,  throwing  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  hid  her  face  in  his  bosom,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Ellen,  my  dear  child,"  he  said,  though  his  own  voice 
faltered  as  he  spoke,  "  do  not  give  way  to  such  sorrow; — 
remember  the  promise  you  made  me  when  I  first  warned 
you  of  our  approaching  troubles.  You  were  to  be,  as  you 
have  ever  been,  my  consolation  and  support. — Where  is 
the  firmness  you  promised  to  exert?" 

"Pardon  me  for  once,  dearest  father,"  she  replied,  "  if  I 
have  permitted  my  feelings  to  overcome  me.  There  fis 
a  wide  difference  between  '  casting  the  fashion  of  uncertain 
evils,'  and  having  them  suddenly  brought  forward  in  all 
their  terrible  reality,  and  in  a  manner  so  unexpected,  and  so 
appalling.  But  I  trust  that  I  shall  be  able  to  fulfil  my 
promise,  now  that  those  evil  days  have  come; — and  that 
the  merciful  being  who  has  watched  over  me  while  my  life 
was  one  continued  scene  of  happiness  and  prosperity,  will 
not  refuse  to  aid  and  counsel  me,  now  that  some  of  his 
blessings  are  apparently  withdrawn.  I  will  trust  and  believe 
that  '  though  his  face  may  be  hidden  from  us'  for  a  time, 
yet '  with  great  mercies  and  with  everlasting  kindness  he 
will  gather  us.' " 

"  It  is  indeed  a  consolation  to  see  you  thus  reasonable, 
my  child,"  said  her  father,  kissing  the  tears  from  her  cheek. 
"  You  are  too  young  in  affliction  for  me  to  find  fault  with 
you,  for  yielding  at  first  to  your  natural  feelings;  but  you 
will  have  to  learn  the  lesson  I  was  early  taught,  that  we 
must  not  repine  when  we  receive  '  evil  as  well  as  good' 
from  His  hand  who  sends  us  all;  and  may  you  be  enabled 


A  DECLARATION.  83 

to  say  as  I  have  done,  in  troubles  greater  than  these  which 
now  threaten  us,  '  The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken 
away,  blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord!'  " 

"  I  will — I  will  do  and  say  all  you  could  wish,  with  His 
help,"  said  Ellen,  again  throwing  her  arras  around  her 
father's  neck,  "only  pray  for  me,  dearest  father!"  she 
whispered,  pressing  her  cheek  to  his. 

"  And  with  you,  dearest  child,"  he  added,  clasping  her 
to  his  heart  as  she  sunk  on  her  knees  by  his  side. 

Sweetly  did  those  mingled  prayers  arise  like  incense  to 
that  gracious  being,  whose  ear  is  ever  open  to  the  supplication 
of  his  afflicted  children,  and  the  blessing  asked  was  already 
bestowed.  The  balm  of  consolation  they  implored,  was 
shed  abroad  in  their  hearts,  and  when  the  father  bestowed 
his  parting  benediction  on  his  daughter,  there  was  a  degree 
of  peace  and  tranquillity  in  the  minds  of  both,  that  could 
have  been  His  gift  alone,  and  which  proved  that  even  in 
their  troubles  they  were  not  forsaken,  but  had  the  assurance 
of  being  safe  "  beneath  the  shadow  of  his  wing," 


SURPRISES. 

•    •       "  Behold  a  man  much  wronged." 

COM.  or  ERRORS. 

— —  "  I  saw  her  just  above  the  horizon,  decorating  and  cheer- 
ing the  elevated  sphere  she  just  began  to  move  in— glittering  like 
the  morning  star,  full  of  life  and  splendour  and  joy." 

BURKE. 

UNCONSCIOUS  of  the  events  that  were  occurring  at  Lans- 
dale,  Medwyn,  at  the  urgent  and  almost  peremptory  request 
of  his  father,  was  still  a  sojourner  in  the  metropolis  of 
France.  He  remained,  however,  entirely  against  his  will, 
for  beside  the  anxiety  he  felt  to  return,  his  apprehensions 
were  excited  by  the  cold  silence  of  the  dear  friends  he  had 
left,  which  was  to  him  as  unaccountable  as  painful.  One 
letter,  and  only  one,  from  his  revered  friend  had  he  received 
since  his  departure: — the  fate  of  the  rest  may  be  surmised 
without  explanation.  They  had  been  addressed  to  the  care 
of  his  father,  whose  determination  to  destroy  whatever 
tokens  of  remembrance  from  that' quarter  might  fall  into  his 
hands,  has  already  been  revealed.  He  had  succeeded  beyond 
his  most  sanguine  expectations,  and  no  word  or  line  from 
Ellen  had  found  its  way  to  his  son,  since  he  left  his  native 
shore. 

There  was  something,  too,  in  the  very  atmosphere  which 
surrounded  him,  that  appeared  to  Medwyn  almost  conta- 
gious. As  one  who  strives  to  rouse  himself  from  some 


SURPRISES.  85 

pleasing  yet  baneful  vision,  he  strove  to  shake  off  the  fetters 
which  threatened  to  bind  him.  He  felt  that  the  life  of  busy 
idleness  he  was  now  leading,  was  altogether  inconsistent 
with  the  career  of  honour  and  of  usefulness  which  had 
formerly  been  the  object  of  his  ambition,  and  that  he  was 
sacrificing  in  frivolous  amusements  that  precious  time  which 
he  felt  and  owned  was  given  him  for  higher  and  nobler 
purposes.  He  had  almost  resolved  to  break  the  bonds, 
which  thus  held  him  captive,  when  he  was  assured  by  his 
father  that  his  wishes  would  detain  him  but  a  few  weeks 
longer,  and  Medwyn  was  then  content  to  bear  this  farther 
trial  of  his  patience. 

He  was  occupied  one  evening  in  communicating  the 
agreeable  intelligence  of  his  anticipated  return,  to  his  absent 
friends,  when  he  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  de  Vau- 
demont,  whose  usually  gay  and  careless  mood  often  led 
him  to  seek  the  company  of  his  associates  in  the  most  unce- 
remonious manner. 

"Writing — writing!"  he  exclaimed  as  he  entered,  "and 
the  hour  has  come,  and  past;  positively  you  will  be  too  late, 
my  dear  fellow.  All  the  world  are  at  the  Frangais  by  this 
time;  you  see  I  am  en  grand  costume,  why  have  you  been 
so  negligent?" 

"  Because  I  have  declined  going,  this  evening,  de  Vaude- 
mont,"  replied  Medwyn.  "  The  gay  world  can  do  very 
well  without  me,  and  in  truth  I  am  tired  of  this  round  of 
frivolity,  which  the  beau  monde  calls  pleasure." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  supposed,"  returned  his  lively 
friend.  "And  for  this  reason  I  have  corne  to  make  a  most 
solemn  proposition.  It  has  been  truly  said  of  this  metropolis 
that  her  churches  are  theatres,  and  her  theatres  churches. 
You  cannot  have  a  better  opportunity  of  perfecting  yourself 
in  the  language  than  by  frequenting  the  Fran$ais  and 


86  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

L'Odcon;  and  Notre-Dame  could  not  offer  you  a  more  grave, 
and  certainly  not  half  so  imposing  a  spectacle  as  we  shall 
see  at  the  former  to-night.  The  tragedy  is  the  Siege  de 
Calais,  and  the  royal  loge  will  be  occupied  by  their  high- 
nesses, the  dauphin  and  the  young  and  beautiful  dauphiness, 
whom  you  have  never  yet  seen.  They  returned  to  the  city 
only  yesterday.  The  enthusiasm  is  at  its  height,  for  the 
unpopularity  of  the  present  king  increases  with  his  declining 
years,  and  even  now,  the  salutations  of  the  royal  family  are 
mingled  with  praises  of  Louis  Seize,  and  Marie  Antoinette, 
who,  though  as  yet  entitled  only  to  the  appellation  of  the 
dauphin  and  dauphine,  are  regarded  as  king  and  queen  of 
the  nation." 

"  Your  arguments  are  powerful,"  said  Medwyn,  smiling, 
"  and  for  the  hundredth  time,  since  our  first  acquaintance, 
you  will  have  had  your  way.  Amuse  yourself  here,  for  a 
short  time,  as  well  as  you  can,  and  I  will  prepare  to  accom- 
pany you." 

De  Vaudemout  paced  the  room  impatiently  until  Med- 
wyn's  return,  and  tried  in  vain  to  confine  his  attention  to 
the  book  he  had  taken  from  the  table.  His  thoughts, 
however,  were  far  otherwise  occupied  than  with  his  apparent 
anxiety  concerning  the  spectacle  au  Frangais,  which,  to  a 
superficial  observer,  might  have  seemed  to  engage  them. 
An  expression  of  deep  and  painful  resolution  occasionally 
flitted  over  his  handsome  features,  and  was  as  quickly 
succeeded  by  one  of  mistrust  and  indecision.  Twice  he  laid 
his  hand  on  the  door  of  the  inner  apartment,  as  if  determined 
to  unburthen  his  mind  without  farther  delay,  and  as  often 
withdrew  it,  and  again,  in  moody  silence,  paced  the  room. 
He  was  interrupted  by  the  re-entrance  of  Medwyn,  who 
signified  his  readiness  to  accompany  him,  and  they  de- 
scended the  stair-way  together.  De  Vaudemont's  carriage 


SURPRISES.  87 

was  still  at  the  porte  cochere,  and  they  were  soon  dashing 
through  the  illuminated  streets. 

Medwyn  was  surprised  to  find  his  usually  communi- 
cative friend  disposed  to  be  taciturn  and  abstracted,  and  he 
endeavoured  in  vain  to  draw  him  into  his  wonted  humour. 
He  was  about  to  rally  him  on  this  novel  mood,  as  he  felt 
disposed  to  call  it,  when  he  observed,  by  the  lamp-light 
that  occasionally  threw  its  glare  on  his  face,  that  he  was 
pale  and  dejected,  and  evidently  endeavouring  to  summon 
resolution  to  speak  on  some  unpleasant  theme.  Medwyn's 
thoughts  immediately  recurred  to  their  interview  on  the 
morning  of  their  visit  to  Fontainbleau,  and  he  awaited  in 
silence  the  confidence,  which  he  now  felt  assured  that  de 
Vaudemont  wished  to  repose  in  him.  This  idea  was 
speedily  confirmed  by  his  friend,  who  laid  his  hand  on  his 
arm,  as  if  to  arrest  his  attention. 

"  You  recollect,  Medwyn,"  he  said,  "  our  conversation 
on  the  morning  of  our  return  from  Fontainbleau?" 

Medwyn  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

"  I  then  asked  your  counsel  and  your  sympathy,"  con- 
tinued de  Vaudemont,  "  and  I  have  been  endeavouring, 
ever  since,  to  summon  resolution  to  acquaint  you  with  the 
circumstances  on  which  I  found  my  claim  for  both.  It  is 
a  difficult  task,  for  I  have  a  confession  to  make,  which  I 
fear  may  lower  me  in  your  good  opinion.  But  painful  as 
the  revelation  will  be  to  me,  I  feel  impelled  to  confide  in 
you.  I  must  be  brief,  for  our  time  is  short,  as  I  perceive 
we  have  already  reached  the  file  of  carriages  before  the  door 
of  the  Fran^ais;  but  the  half  hour  that  we  shall  be  detained 
here  will  suffice  for  my  purpose. 

"  I  once  told  you,  Medwyn,  that  I  was  not  always  what 
I  now  seem  to  be,  and  my  words  were  designed  to  convey 
more  meanings  than  one.  Not  only  my  nature,  but  my 


88  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

name  has  been  changed  within  a  few  years  past;  and  though 
yov^have  often  expressed  surprise  at  the  perfect  facility 
with  which  I  speak  your  language,  you  will  cease  to  won- 
der at  it  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am,  both  by  birth  and  educa- 
tion, your  countryman.  A^  an  early  age,  I  accompanied 
my  parents  to  India,  where  I  had  the  misfortune  to  lose 
them  both;  and  should  have  found  myself  alone  in  the  wide 
world,  but  for  the  kindness  of  one  of  my  father's  friends, 
on  whom  fortune  had  lavished  her  treasures,  and  who  was 
blest  with  a  heart  as  benevolent  as  hia  coffers  were  over- 
flowing. He  adopted  me  as  his  own  son,  and  under  his 
auspices  I  came  to  this  metropolis  to  complete  my  studies. 
"  By  a  singular  freak  of  fortune,  it  happened,  that  during 
my  college  career,  I  was  instrumental  in  saving  the  life  of 
the  old  Marquis  de  Vaudemont,  whose  gratitude  was 
unbounded,  and  who  would  content  himself  with  nothing 
less  than  lavishing  half  his  splendid  income  upon  me,  and 
bestowing  on  me  his  own  name,  which,  as  you  are  well 
aware,  is  one  of  the  noblest  in  the  nation.  Thus,  I  have 
found  myself  for  the  second  time,  an  adopted  child,  but 
unhappily,  an  enfant  gate.  Far  different  have  his  counsels 
been  from  those  of  my  own  father,  or  the  excellent  friend, 
to  whose  guardianship  my  early  years  were  confided.  The 
kind-hearted  old  marquis  believes  that  pleasure  is,  very 
naturally  and  properly,  the  sole  object  of  youth,  and  I 
have  unfortunately  imbibed  his  sentiments,  though  my 
better  judgment,  and  the  remembrance  of  the  days  past, 
both  warn  me  to  the  contrary.  In  my  eager  pursuit  of  this 
alluring  phantom,  which  ever  eludes  my  grasp,  I  forgot 
what  was  due  to  the  friend  and  guardian  of  my  early  youth; 
— nor  can  I  describe  the  pang  I  felt,  when  accounts  reached 
me  of  his  death,  and  when  the  last  letters  he  ever  wrote, 
were  put  into  my  hands,  together  with  a  copy  of  his  will, 


SURPRISES.  89 

bequeathing  to  me  his  whole  fortune.  It  was  now,  however, 
too  late  to  repair  my  error,  and  amid  the  fascinating  gaieties 
by  which  I  surrounded  myself,  the  reproaches  of  conscience 
were  stifled.  Years  since  that  period  have  passed  by,  and 
I  find  myself  still  more  eager  in  my  pursuit  of  happiness, 
and  still  farther  than  ever  from  my  object. 

"  Now  comes  the  confession  I  am  about  to  make. — Not- 
withstanding the  lavish  bounty  of  the  Marquis  de  Vaude- 
mont,  it  was  insufficient  to  support  the  career  of  folly  in 
which  I  was  engaged,  and  I  began  to  be  in  want  of  means 
to  compass  the  extravagance  of  my  wishes.  That  fatal 
temptation — the  gaming  table,  presented  itself  as  a  resource, 
and  I  added  one  more  to  the  miserable  victims  who  are 
daily  and  nightly  immolated  at  it.  I  fell  into  the  hands  of 
an  accomplished  villain,  who  speedily  stripped  me  of  all 
that  I  could  call  my  own.  In  a  luckless  hour,  I  was  per- 
suaded to  accompany  him  to  his  own  house,  where,  by  his 
specious  arts  and  seductive  flatteries,  he  so  far  won  upon 
me,  that  I  entrusted  to  his  charge  the  important  papers  of 
which  I  have  spoken,  (the  letters  and  the  will  of  my  guar- 
dian,) which  he  assured  me  should  only  be  detained  as 
hostages,  to  be  returned  as  soon  as  he  was  convinced  of  my 
determination  to  abjure  the  dangerous  habits  in  which  I 
indulged. 

"  I  have  since,  however,  had  reason  to  suspect,  that  his 
intentions  are  altogether  different,  and  that  some  dark 
scheme  is  the  result  of  my  imprudence.  He  carefully 
eludes  my  scrutiny,  and  I  am  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed.  I 
have  been  warned  that  his  designs  are  of  the  most  desperate 
character,  and  that  his  determination  is  to  assume  my  real 
name,  to  possess  himself  of  my  fortune,  and  for  these  ends, 
to  attempt  my  life.  This  I  can  readily  believe,  for  his 
genius  is  as  subtle  as  his  heart  is  corrupt,  and  wo  to  the 
7 


90  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

unwary  youth  who  falls  into  such  hands  as  those  of  de 
Gourville." 

De  Vaudemont  was  surprised  at  the  sudden  start  with 
which  Medwyn  received  his  last  words. 

"The  name  of  de  Gourville,  apparently,  is  not  unknown 
to  you,"  he  resumed,  "  and  in  truth,  he  is  but  too  familiar 
in  the  circle  we  both  at  present  frequent.  But  you  certainly 
have  not  the  same  reasons  that  I  have  had  for  seeking  his 
acquaintance:  do  you  then  know  him?  or  can  you  give  me 
any  information  respecting  his  present  movements?" 

"  I  have  seen  him,"  answered  Medwyn,  "  and  my 
unfavourable  opinion,  from  the  first  moment  I  met  with  him, 
is  now  fully  confirmed.  I  can,  I  believe,  aid  you  in  unravel- 
ling some  of  his  schemes,  but  you  must  first  submit  to  be 
questioned  on  one  point.  May  I  ask  the  name  by  which 
you  are  designated  in  the  will  of  your  former  guardian?" 

"  My  father's  name  was  Elford,"  replied  de  Vaudemont, 
"  and  the  name  of  Seymour  Elford,  which  was  mine  before 
I  adopted  that  of  de  Vaudemont,  is  the  one  which  appears 
in  the  will  of  my  guardian." 

"  And  the  name  of  your  guardian?" — 

"  Lansdale,"  said  de  Vaudemont.  "  By  this  will  I  am 
entitled  to  a  splendid  estate,  which  bears  the  same  name; 
but  through  the  carelessness  and  indiscretion  which  have 
ever  been  my  bane,  I  took  no  steps  to  prosecute  my  claim, 
until  it  has  been  jeoparded  by  the  folly  I  have  this  night 
confessed  to  you.  I  may,  however,  have  some  pretension 
to  generosity  in  delaying  it  so  long,  for  I  learn  that  the 
present  possessor,  the  brother  of  my  guardian,  is  an  excel- 
lent man,  with  a  lovely  daughter,  and  this^consideration  will 
go  far  to  reconcile  me  to  the  loss  of  a  fortune  (if  I  should 
lose  it)  of  which,  until  now,  I  have  never  felt  the  slightest 
need." 


SURPRISES.  91 

"  Your  information  has  been  correct  on  all  these  points," 
said  Medwyn,  "  and  in  return  for  the  confidence  you  have 
reposed  in  me,  I  will  not  withhold  mine  from  you.  The 
revelation  you  have  made  involves  consequences  to  me, 
which,  when  you  know  all,  will  astonish  you  as  much  as 
your  communication  has  surprised  me.  I  must,  however, 
delay,  until  our  next  interview,  my  communication,  for,  as 
you  see,  your  carriage  already  arrests  the  file  at  the  door 
of  the  theatre;  but  in  the  mean  time,  I  must  add  my  warning 
to  that  of  your  mysterious  monitress  against  this  strange 
and  desperate  man.  From  what  has  already  fallen  under 
my  own  observation,  you  have  need  to  be  on  your  guard!" 

They  descended  the  steps  of  the  carriage  as  he  spoke, 
and  entered  the  Salle  du  Spectacle  of  the  Theatre  Frai^ais. 

They  found  it  brilliantly  illuminated,  and  full  to  overflow- 
ing, and  all  eyes  of  the  gay  company  assembled  there  were 
turned  to  the  royal  loge,  where  sat  their  highnesses,  the 
dauphin  and  the  dauphiness.  At  the  moment  Medwyn 
and  de  Vaudemont  entered  the  Salle,  they  heard  these  words 
from  the  stage: 

"  Le  Frangais  dans  son  prince  aime  £i  trouver  un  frdre, 
dui,  n£  fils  de  1'etat,  en  devienne  le  p6re." 

Every  eye  was  raised  toward  the  dauphin,  and  unbounded 
applause  arose  from  the  assembly.  The  next  instant,  the 
following  beautiful  line  was  received  with  the  same  marked 
approbation  by  the  dauphin. 

"  Rend  re  heureux  qui  nous  aime,  est  un  si  doux  devoir!" 

As  he  rose  and  bowed  to  the  multitude,  around  and  below 
him,  the  enthusiasm  was  at  its  height; — and  when  the  young 
and  beautiful  dauphiness,  Marie  Antoinette,  with  a  gesture 


92  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

of  the  most  graceful  condescension,  acknowledged  the  senti- 
ments which  thus  drew  the  prince  toward  the  nation,  and 
at  the  same  moment  expressed  the  loyalty  of  the  people  to 
their  prince,  the  salon  echoed  with  shouts  of  joy  and 
triumph. 

Medwyn  looked  fixedly  at  the  bright  and  beautiful  being, 
blazing  with  the  jewels  of  Austria  and  France,  and  yet 
more  radiant  in  her  own  dazzling  loveliness,  as,  smiling 
through  her  tears,  she  acknowledged  the  compliments 
awarded  her,  and  he  could  hardly  credit  the  evidence  of  his 
own  senses.  But  no! — it  was  no  illusion! — in  the  fair 
dauphiness,  he  beheld  the  charming  incognita  of  the  forest 
of  Fontainbleau! 

"  That  was  certainly  a  glance  of  recognition,  her  royal 
highness  bestowed  on  you,  Medwyn,"  whispered  de  Vaude- 
mont,  when  after  the  rapturous  applause  had  subsided,  and 
the  audience  became  more  composed,  Medwyn  turned 
again  to  catch  another  view  of  the  beautiful  dauphiness. 
"  This  may  certainly  make  amends  for  your  unfortunate 
rencontre  with  the  African  page  at  Fontainbleau,  and  pro- 
mises well  for  your  future  success  at  Versailles.  But  you 
will  soon  have  an  opportunity  of  making  your  court,  for  I 
see  one  of  her  attendants  approaching  us." 

De  Vaudemont's  conjecture  proved  correct,  for  an  officer 
of  the  king's  household  at  that  moment  won  his  easy  way 
to  the  spot  they  occupied,  and  politely  signified  to  Medwyn 
the  wish  of  her  highness,  that  he  should  pay  his  devoirs  at 
the  royal  loge.  He  followed  his  conductor,  and  was  re- 
ceived with  the  gracious  courtesy  which  always  marked 
the  manner  of  the  youthful  dauphiness. 

"  The  silence  I  requested  you  to  observe  with  regard  to 
my  adventure  in  the  forest  of  Fontainbleau,"  said  her  high- 
ness, after  Medwyn  had  paid  his  court  to  the  occupants  of 


SURPRISES.  93 

the  loge,  "  may  now  be  considered  as  terminated.  I  have 
confessed  my  sins,"  she  continued,  with  a  smile,  and  glanc- 
ing at  the  dauphin,  "  and  have  received  absolution;  though 
I  hardly  merited  so  fortunate  an  issue  when  guilty  of  such 
imprudence;  but  no  one  can  imagine  the  delight  of  escaping 
from  the  rigid  rules  of  Madame  L' etiquette,*  for  a  wild 
ramble  through  the  forest.  This  may  serve  to  extenuate 
the  folly,  even  of  a  princess,  when  it  is  remembered  that 
she  has  not  yet  completed  her  sixteenth  year." 

The  dauphin  added  his  warm  acknowledgements  of  the 
timely  service  her  highness  had  received,  and  both  intimated 
their  wish  of  seeing  her  champion  the  following  evening  at 
the  bal  a  la  cour  at  Versailles.  Medwyn  expressed  his 
sense  of  the  honour  thus  tendered  him,  and  at  that  moment 
the  spectacle  terminated,  and  he  withdrew.  He  found 
himself  separated  so  completely  from  de  Vaudemont,  that 
it  would  have  been  idle  to  attempt  to  seek  him,  and  he 
returned  to  his  hotel  alone. 

The  scenes  he  had  just  witnessed,  afforded  him  an 
ample  field  for  reflection  during  his  solitary  drive.  The 
singularity  of  his  accidental  interview  with  the  fair  dau- 
phiness  at  first  occupied  his  mind;  nor  can  it  be  a  matter 
of  surprise,  that  so  bright  an  image  should,  for  a  moment, 
have  thrown  all  other  objects  into  the  shade.  But  his 
thoughts  soon  reverted  to  the  earlier  events  of  the  evening, 
and  he  recalled  the  communications  of  de  Vaudemont  care- 
fully to  mind. 

It  may  well  be  imagined,  that  he  felt  the  deepest  interest 
in  the  circumstances  which  had  been  thus  related  to  him. 
From  their  first  acquaintance,  he-  had  felt  a  peculiar  kind- 
ness for  de  Vaudemont,  whose  winning  manners  and  affec- 

*  La  Comtesse  de  Noailles. 


94  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

tionate  disposition  had  almost  concealed,  from  the  view  of 
his  friend,  the  follies  he  had  so  ingenuously  confessed. 
There  was  a  latent  spark  of  virtue  and  generosity  still 
slumbering  in  his  breast,  which  Medwyn  trusted  would  not 
be  extinguished,  and  which,  if  he  could  have  been  removed 
from  the  fatal  influences  by  which  he  was  surrounded, 
might  have  been  fanned  into  a  flame,  and  aroused  the  nobler 
energies  of  his  nature.  Under  other  circumstances,  Med- 
wyn would  have  rejoiced  at  the  prospect  of  his  improved 
fortunes,  and  still  more  at  that  of  his  removal  from  the  dan- 
gerous scenes  with  which  he  was  familiar;  but  his  heart 
sank,  when  he  contemplated  the  other  side  of  the  picture, 
and  beheld  the  ruin  of  his  best  friend,  and  the  probable  con- 
sequences of  that  event  upon  his  own  destiny.  The  idea 
of  sacrificing  his  dearest  hopes  upon  the  altar  of  mammon 
never  once  found  a  place  in  his  thoughts;  but  he  knew  the 
lofty  spirit  of  Sir  Frederick  Lansdale  well,  and  he  feared 
that  even  the  resolution  of  the  gentle  Ellen  would  be  proof 
against  his  entreaties  to  unite  her  destiny  with  his,  until 
more  propitious  days  should  dawn  on  their  now  clouded 
prospects.  What  would  have  been  his  feelings,  had  he 
known  what  was  passing  amid  the  peaceful  and  happy 
scenes  he  had  left!  But  though  entirely  unaware  of  the 
success  of  de  Gourville's  dark  schemes,  a  vague  apprehen- 
sion overpowered  his  mind,  and  he  resolved,  at  all  hazards, 
to  return  immediately. 

The  following  morning,  he  called  on  his  father,  and 
mentioned  his  wishes  and  intentions.  Lord  Belmore  re- 
ceived his  communication  with  a  clouded  brow,  but  opposed 
no  obstacle  to  the  wishes  of  his  son.  He  had  already  re- 
ceived intelligence  from  de  Gourville,  of  the  determination 
of  Sir  Frederick  Lansdale  to  leave  his  native  land  for  the 


SURPRISES.  95 

western  world,  and  he  trusted  that  this  design  had  been 
already  executed.  He  therefore  simply  remarked, 

"  It  will  be  useless  to  undertake  the  journey  until  a  few 
days  hence.  I  have  just  been  looking  over  the  journals, 
and  you  will  find  no  packet  at  Boulogne  at  present." 

Medwyn  satisfied  himself  of  the  necessity  of  patience  for 
a  few  coming  days,  and  assented  to  his  father's  proposition 
of  accompanying  him  to  the  bal  a  la  cour  at  Versailles  in 
the  evening. 


A  COURT  BALL. 

"  Speak  to  me,  voice  of  sweet  sound,  and  tell, 
How  can'st  thou  wake  by  one  gentle  breath 
Passionate  visions  of  love  and  death!" 

HEMANS. 

"  Hold  thy  desperate  hand! 
Art  thou  a  man!" — 

ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

THE  hour  that  brought  with  it  so  many  bright  anticipa- 
tions of  the  young,  the  gay,  the  beautiful,  at  length  arrived, 
and  the  court  was  unusually  thronged.  The  etiquette, 
which  in  former  days  would  have  excluded  much  of  the 
youthful  loveliness  that  now  lent  its  graces  to  the  scene, 
was  waived,  in  consideration  of  the  age  of  the  dauphiness, 
and  for  once, 

"Everything  young,  everything  fair, 
From  east  to  west  was  blushing  there." 

The  palace  was  brilliantly  illuminated,  and  the  marble 
stairways,  and  ante-chambers  were  tastefully  and  richly 
ornamented  with  exotic  flowers,  whose  splendid  colours 
were  heightened  by  the  festoons  of  coloured  lamps  that 
sparkled  among  them.  Within,  all  was  blazing  with  lustres 
and  or  moulu,  paintings,  and  mirrors.  The  rich  and  curious 
tapestry  of  the  Gobelins,  and  the  rarest  and  most  costly 
ornaments  of  foreign  climes  lent  their  aid  to  the  gorgeous 
splendour  of  the  scene.  The  vacant  throne,  with  its  drape- 
ries of  purple  velvet  studded  with  golden^ewrs  de  Us,  and 


A  COURT  BALL.  97 

surmounted  by  the  jewelled  crown,  was  rendered  yet  more 
imposing  by  the  snowy  banners,  the  Bourbon  emblems, 
that  floated  majestically  above  it.  The  salle  du  spectacle 
had  been  converted  into  a  salle  de  danse,  and  in  this  fairy 
scene  was  assembled  the  chivalry  and  the  beauty  of  la 
grande  Nation.  "  Bright  jewels  of  the  mine"  were  out- 
shone by  brighter  eyes,  and  gold  embroidery,  white  plumes, 
and  jewelled  swords,  were  mingled  with  the  lighter  cos- 
tumes of  the  fair.  The  murmuring  voices  of  the  gay 
assembly  were  scarce  heard  amid  the  pealing  music  of  the 
orchestra,  save  when  some  low,  breathing,  flute-like  sym- 
phony preceded  a  superb  flight  of  the  opera. 

Suddenly,  the  music  ceased,  and  all  eyes  were  turned  to 
the  folding  doors,  which  were  thrown  open,  and  his  majesty 
entered,  followed  by  the  dauphin,  and  the  youthful  dauphin- 
ess.  Arrayed  in  a  robe  of  the  lightest  and  most  delicate 
texture,  and  of  the  purest  white,  with  no  ornament  but  her 
own  matchless  loveliness,  she  moved,  like  a  being  of  ano- 
ther sphere,  through  the  brilliant  and  gracefully  yielding 
throng.  Happy  were  those  who  could  catch  her  bright 
smile,  and  happier  still,  those  on  whom  a  gentle  word  or 
gesture  of  recognition  was  bestowed.  Among  this  favoured 
number  were  our  young  hero,  and  his  friend  de  Vaudemont, 
who  received  a  gracious  salutation. 

"  How  do  you  like  our  fete,"  said  the  king  to  his  minis- 
ter of  finance,  near  whom  they  were  standing.  The  minis- 
ter bowed  low,  and  the  word  "  Impayable,"  alone  reached 
their  ears.  His  majesty  smiled,  and  passed  on. 

"  Impayable!"  repeated  de  Vaudemont,  when  he  was 
out  of  hearing:  "  A  bold  reply  for  a  financier  to  his  sove- 
reign; but  it  probably  concerns  the  former  far  more  than 
the  latter.  It  is  the  affair  of  the  minister  to  raise  money;— 
the  king  has  only  the  trouble  of  spending  it,  which  from  my 


98  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

experience,  is  by  far  the  easiest  part  of  the  task.  But 
what  have  we  here?"  he  continued,  as  a  small  party  ap- 
proached. 

The  group  that  drew  near  them  consisted  of  eight  or  ten 
persons,  habited  in  the  costumes  of  the  different  Swiss  can- 
tons, and  each  provided  with  some  musical  instrument. 

*'  This  is  probably  a  fancy  of  the  dauphiness  for  varying 
the  scene,"  continued  de  Vandemont.  She  has  a  romantic 
turn,  and  has  already  been  playing  the  shepherdess  in  the 
park  of  the  palace.  I  trust,  however,  that  these  are  Pari- 
sian or  Italian  connoisseurs  under  the  mask  of  peasants,  for 
though  the  Swiss  music  is  charming  in  the  open  air,  and 
softened  by  the  dashing  of  a  waterfall  for  its  accompaniment, 
with  the  splendours  of  Alpine  scenery  to  lend  it  enchant- 
ment, it  is  detestable  in  a  gilded  salon." 

He  took  Medwyn's  arm  as  he  spoke,  and  they  followed 
the  musical  group  into  an  apartment  withdrawn  from  the 
ball  room.  A  crowd  speedily  followed,  and  they  found 
themselves  in  "  contact  inconvenient"  with  the  musicians, 
who  impatiently  awaited  the  permission  to  occupy  a  sepa- 
rate space  allotted  to  them.  During  these  moments,  Med- 
vryn  occupied  himself  in  surveying  the  costumes  near  him, 
and  his  glance  encountered  a  pair  of  large  dark  eyes  fixed 
wistfully  on  his  face.  There  was  something  of  mournful 
and  beseeching  sadness  in  their  expression  that  riveted  his 
gaze,  as  he  strove  to  remember  where  he  had  seen  that  face 
before. 

Longer  he  might  have  gazed  in  vain,  but  for  the  sudden 
start  of  de  Vaudemont,  who,  at  that  instant,  released  his 
arm,  and  in  a  low  voice  pronounced  the  name  of  "  Ismene." 
His  memory  thus  aided,  Medwyn  recalled  the  scene  in 
which  he  had  first  met  with  de  Vaudemont,  and  though 
without  this  assistance  he  might  not  have  recollected  the 


A  COURT  BALL.  99 

minstrel,  whose  plaintive  notes  had  enchained  his  ear  that 
morning  in  the  bosquet  of  the  garden,  he  now  remarked 
the  same  fragile  form  and  white  hand  that  had  swept  the 
guitar.  To  the  simple  and  sombre  costume  of  Argovie,  she 
had  added,  in  the  place  of  the  black  riband  that  binds  the 
bright  locks  of  the  peasant,  a  black  veil,  which  floated  on 
either  side,  and  presented  a  strange  and  sad  contrast  with 
the  cheek  of  marble  paleness  it  seemed  designed  to  shade. 
Startled  at  the  sound  of  her  own  name,  though  uttered  in  a 
voice  so  low  that  it  would  have  been  lost  on  a  less  delicate 
ear,  the  minstrel  withdrew  her  eyes,  and  looked  on  de 
Vaudemont.  Bending  forward,  as  if  to  extricate  the  lute 
she  held  from  the  throng  near  her,  she  said  to  him  in  a  tone 
as  low  as  his  own, 

"  Ismene  is  not  then  concealed  by  the  costume  of  Argovie 
or  the  black  veil  of  the  nun.  But  I  came  hither  to  warn 
thee.  Amid  these  gilded  and  illuminated  halls, — beneath 
these  blushing  wreaths  of  flowers,  there  lurks  a  serpent, — 
Adhemar  de  Vaudemont,  beware!" 

The  last  word  alone  fell  on  Medwyn's  ear,  as  the  min- 
strel pronounced  it  with  more  energy  than  the  rest.  He 
observed  that  de  Vaudemont  changed  colour,  and  a  slight 
shudder  passed  over  his  frame,  as  the  words  of  ominous 
import  fell  from  her  lips.  Another  moment,  and  she  had 
mingled  with  the  musicians,  who  were  now  occupying  the 
space  allotted  for  their  reception. 

Their  first  prelude  convinced  the  listeners,  that  the  pre- 
tended Swiss  peasants  were  the  finest  artistes  that  the  sunny 
south  or  the  kindred  spirit  of  harmony  in  the  north  could 
supply,  and  their  exquisite  skill  elicited  the  unbounded 
applause  of  the  enraptured  audience.  Solos,  duetts,  trios 
succeeded,  and  it  appeared  impossible  to  satisfy  the  un- 
wearied listeners.  At  length,  after  a  few  minutes'  pause, 


100  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

several  of  the  musicians  approached  the  spot  where  stood 
Ismene,  her  long  black  veil  half  shading  her  face,  and  seem- 
ingly unconscious  of  the  passing  scene.  The  proposition 
they  made  apparently  struck  her  with  terror,  for  she  shrunk 
back;  but  the  entreaties  of  the  musicians  were  seconded  by 
the  audience,  and  the  wish,  expressed  by  so  many  united 
voices,  sounded  like  a  command.  With  a  slow  and  falter- 
ing step  she  approached  the  harp,  which  was  brought  for- 
ward, and  as  she  touched  the  strings,  the  soft  and  tremulous 
notes  were  scarce  heard  throughout  the  breathless  audience. 
A  hectic  flush  rose  on  her  cheek,  her  eye  brightened  as  she 
seemed  to  collect  herself  for  the  trial  of  her  skill,  and  the 
genius  of  the  Improvisatrice  burst  forth.  The  chords  of 
the  harp,  first  low  and  tremulous  as  the  summer  wind, 
swelled  into  the  most  exquisite  harmony,  and  breathed  the 
very  soul  of  music.  "  The  voice!  the  voice!"  exclaimed 
the  audience,  when  a  moment's  pause  admitted  of  their  en- 
treaty. The  bright  flush  on  the  minstrel's  cheek  had  sub- 
sided, and  it  had  resumed  the  marble  hue.  She  pressed 
her  hand  on  her  brow  with  an  expression  of  suffering,  and 
as  if  to  recall  her  wandering  thoughts,  and  after  a  low  and 
plaintive  symphony,  those  thoughts  apparently  came  forth 
in  words: 

The  light  is  blazing  in  bower  and  hall, 

And  the  wine-cup  sparkles  high, 
The  garlands  are  wreath'd,  and  soft  music's  call 

Invites  to  the  revelry. 

It  is  not  in  scenes  of  such  dazzling  light 

That  the  nightingale's  song  is  heard, 
The  stars'  faint  glow,  and  the  moon's  pale  light, 

Are  lov'd  by  the  pensive  bird. 

By  the  deep  lone  dell,  and  the  silvery  stream 
Is  her  song, — and  the  woodland  glade, 


A  COURT  BALL.  101 

And  the  mossy  couch  where  the  fairies  dream, 
And  the  quivering  forest  shade. 

Why  call  ye  the  sombre  bird  of  night 

Amid  gilded  halls  to  roam! 
Her  voice  is  hush'd— till  she  wings  her  flight 

Back  to  her  own  lov'd  home. 

But  the  spoiler's  ruthless  hand  was  there, — 

Desert  that  place  of  rest, — 
The  scenes  she  lov'd  still  are  soft  and  fair, 

But  to  her  they  are  all  unblest. 

Yet  once  more  would  she  turn  to  that  silvery  stream, 

And  the  dark  wood,  waving  high — 
Invoke  the  bright  spell  of  her  spirit's  dream, — 

Breathe  her  last  note,— and — die ! 

As  the  last  words  of  the  minstrel  were  murmured  forth 
in  a  cadence,  "  soft,  gentle  and  low,"  she  clasped  her  hands 
on  the  harp  over  which  she  leaned,  and  rested  her  forehead 
on  them.  The  attitude,  and  the  paleness  of  her  cheek,  dis- 
played so  evidently  the  deep  feeling  which  had  abstracted 
her  from  all  around,  that  a  breathless  silence  ensued,  and 
for  a  few  moments  the  idea  prevailed,  that  her  words  might 
have  been  prophetic,  and  that  with  these  last  strains  of 
touching  harmony,  her  spirit  might  have  winged  its  flight. 
But  again  she  raised  her  head, — the  hectic  flush  rose  in  her 
cheek,  and  the  lustre  of  her  dark  eye  once  more  shone 
forth.  She  swept  her  hand  over  the  strings,  and  a  strain, 
deep,  rich,  and  solemn,  accompanied  her  words. 

Why  call  ye  the  child  of  the  mist  and  storm 

Amid  blushing  flowers  to  dwell, — 
Or  why  should  the  seer  to  an  angel  form 

A  vision  of  wo  foretell'? 


102  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

Why  trembled  the  earth  in  her  caves  afar, 
Why  mingled  the  lightning's  gleam 

With  the  first  bright  ray  of  ibis  gentle  star, 
When  a  dark  world  hail'd  her  beam"} 

See  ye  a  form  in  a  robe  of  light 
With  seraphic  beauty  crown'd; 

The  cheek  is  fair,  and  the  smile  is  bright, 
And  the  laughing  loves  are  'round. — 

A  palace  her's,— and  a  kingly  hall, 
And  fair  knights  around  her  bow; 

The  festal  train — and  the  garlands — all, — 
And  a  crown  awaits  her  brow. 

See  ye  those  sunny  locks  that  wave, 
And  the  hope  in  her  radiant  eyel 

Alas!  for  the  promise  her  bright  youth  gave, 
Too  soon  is  it  doom'd  to  die! — 

Ah,  why  should  a  brow  so  soft  and  fair, 
And  the  lightly  wreathed  smile 

Be  seal'd  by  the  ruthless  hand  of  care, 
And  forget  their  gentle  wile? — 

Not  as  the  murmuring  summer  stream 
That  exhales  in  the  sun's  bright  ray, 

Not  as  the  fount  in  that  ardent  beam, 
Will  her  bright  life  melt  away. 

The  broken  flower  on  the  tempest's  wing, 
When  the  wild  storm  rages  high, 

The  coral  wreath  that  the  surges  fling, 
Shadow  forth  her  destiny.— 

On  the  tempest  of  human  passions  borne 
While  the  deep  bell  sounds  its  peal, — 

To  her  princely  home  she  will  ne'er  return,- 
Wo  for  the  blood-red  steel! — 


A  COURT  BALL.  103 

The  rich  and  solemn  strain  was  hushed, — but  the  dark 
eye  of  the  minstrel  rested  on  the  "  seraphic  form,"  the 
theme  of  her  prophetic  song.  There  was  something  in  its 
deep,  tender,  and  mournful  gaze  that  riveted  the  young 
and  beautiful  dauphiness  to  the  spot.  Accustomed,  from 
her  earliest  years,  to  associate  the  idea  of  misfortune  with 
her  destiny,  the  sad  and  ominous  warnings  sank  on  her 
heart  like  the  death-peal  that  rung  out  in  the  song  of  the 
Improvisatrice.  The  bright  smile  forsook  her  lip, — she 
turned  pale,  and  would  have  sunk  to  the  floor,  but  for  the 
sustaining  arm  of  the  dauphin,  who  was  standing  near  her. 

All  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  spot  where  she  stood. 
The  music  ceased,  and  a  crowd  of  eager  courtiers  pressed 
forward  to  offer  their  aid  and  sympathy. 

"  Her  highness  should  not  be  thus  moved  by  the  words 
of  the  Improvisatrice,"  said  a  deep  voice  amid  the  throng, 
"she  is  mad." 

The  words  were  uttered  in  too  low  a  tone  to  reach  the  ear 
of  the  dauphiness,  but  they  were  soon  repeated,  and  echoed 
from  lip  to  lip.  The  interest,  first  awakened  on  behalf  of 
the  minstrel,  was  renewed,  and  eager  glances  sought  the 
spot  she  had  occupied  a  moment  before.  It  was  deserted— 
the  Improvisatrice  had  disappeared. 

"That  strain  was  sad  and  wild,"  said  de  Vaudemont, 
musingly,  as  with  Medwyn  he  descended  the  steps  of  the 
chateau  that  led  to  the  garden.  "It  had  indeed,  'a  dying 
fall,'  though  rich  and  soft  as  the  poet's  dream  of  « the  sweet 
south  upon  a  bed  of  violets,  stealing  and  giving  odour.' 
There  was  something  of  deep  solemnity  in  it,  oppressive  and 
ominous  in  the  midst  of  so  dazzling  a  scene.  I  feel  happy 
to  escape  from  its  influence  to  the  more  quiet  though  less 
brilliant  one  on  which  we  are  now  entering." 

As  he  spoke   they  reached  the  garden,  which,  though 


104  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

illuminated  in  that  part  of  it  nearest  the  palace,  where  the 
jets  tVeau  were  playing  in  the  light  of  the  variegated  lamps 
around  them,  yet  presented  an  aspect  less  inviting  than  in  a 
warmer  season. 

It  was,  however,  a  mild  winter  evening,  and  Medwyn 
found  relief  from  the  oppressive  atmosphere  he  had  just 
left,  in  the  cool  breeze  which  fanned  his  brow,  as  they 
entered  one  of  the  superb  alleys,  bordered  with  towering 
marronniers.  The  tall  and  stately  trees,  despoiled  of  their 
foliage,  waved  in  the  wintry  wind,  and  threw  their  dark 
shadows  across  the  pathway,  giving  alternate  light  and 
shade  to  the  groups  of  statuary,  and  pure  white  of  the 
Grecian  vases  on  either  side  of  the  walk. 

"  The  Improvisatrice  is,  apparently,  a  friend  of  yours," 
said  Medwyn,  after  a  few  minutes  silence,  during  which  de 
Vaudemont  seemed  to  be  occupied  with  his  own  reflections. 
"  There  is  something  of  mystery  in  the  deep  solicitude  she 
manifests  for  you,  that  may  well  awaken  a  corresponding 
degree  of  interest  on  your  part,  and  the  '  meek  intelligence' 
of  those  dark  beseeching  eyes,  would  move  a  heart  of  less 
sensibility  than  yours.  But  can  there  be  any  truth  in  the 
rumour  we  heard  around  us  before  we  left  the  music  room?" 

De  Vaudemont  shook  his  head.  "Ismene  is  not  mad," 
he  said,  "though  the  wildness  of  the  thoughts  she  some- 
times breathes  forth  in  these  soul-subduing  strains  might 
justify  such  a  suspicion.  She  is  not  mad,  but  her  fancies 
are  often  visionary  and  enthusiastic;  and  for  this  reason  I 
do  not  heed  the  warnings  she  sometimes  addresses  to  me, 
as  much  as  prudence  might  dictate.  Her  story  is  sad  and 
touching,  and  adds  another  link  to  the  chain  of  de  Gourville's 
crimes.  Her  most  ardent  wish,  now,  is  to  return  to  the 
home,  from  which,  in  a  luckless  hour  he  induced  her  to 
stray,  and  there  to  terminate  her  existence,  which,  as  may 


A  COURT  BALL.  105 

~.<t 

be  easily  judged  from  her  pale  cheek  and  fragile  form,  can- 
not be  of  long  duration.  Several  times  she  has  warned  me, 
as  she  did  this  evening,  when  you  probably  heard  her 
words;  and  if  I  mistake  not,  you  received  a  mysterious  billet 
from  her  hand  soon  after  your  arrival  in  the  metropolis.  Of 
this  she  herself  informed  me,  after  she  perceived  that  its  effect 
had  not  been  what  she  had  hoped,  and  that  despite  her  kind 
counsel  we  had  become  associates  and  friends.  She  had 
discovered  that  de  Gourville  bore  a  deadly  hatred  towards 
you,  and  had  even  employed  spies  to  watch  all  your  move- 
ments; and  she  feared  that,  if  to  this  feeling  were  superadded 
a  suspicion  of  our  mutual  confidence,  it  might  prove  dan- 
gerous, if  not  fatal  to  you  as  well  as  to  me,  for  she  seems 
but  too  well  acquainted  with  his  recklessness  and  despera- 
tion. By  preventing  any  acquaintance  from  being  formed 
between  us,  she  hoped  to  lull  the  suspicions  of  de  Gourville, 
until  she  could  inform  us  of  his  schemes,  which  he  had, 
contrary  to  his  usual  cunning,  confided  to  her,  but  which 
my  confessions  of  the  last  evening  have  partially  brought  to 
light,  and  which  you  told  me  would  be  yet  more  fully 
developed  by  yourself,  when  we  had  another  opportunity 
of  conversing  without  restraint." 

"  My  promise  can  be  fulfilled  at  the  present  moment," 
replied  Medwyn,  "  perhaps  better  than  at  any  other,  for 
we  may  not  again  speedily  have  such  an  opportunity  of 
private  conversation.  I  shall  leave  the  metropolis  in  a  few 
days,  to  return  to  the  friends  I  have  left,  and  though  I  may 
be  the  bearer  of  sad  tidings,  I  shall  be  well  assured  of  a 
kindly  welcome.  You  will  be  surprised  to  learn,  de  Vau- 
demont,  that  the  brother  of  your  guardian,  Sir  Frederick 
Lansdale,  the  excellent  man  whose  fortunes  are  to  be  ruined 
by  your  claim,  is  my  best,  and  most  revered  friend;  and  his 
daughter," — Medwyn  paused;  there  was  something  too 
8 


106  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

deep  and  pure  in  the  emotions  that  fondly  clustered  around 
that  loved  image,  to  permit  them  to  be  the  theme  of  ordi- 
nary communication.  Apparently,  however,  de  Vaudemont 
divined  all  that  was  passing  in  his  mind,  for  he  grasped  his 
hand,  and  looked  earnestly  in  his  face,  as  if  he  would  have 
read  his  thoughts. 

"  Medwyn!"  he  exclaimed,  "  can  it  be  possible? — and 
should  I  not,  then,  in  recovering  this  estate,  mar,  nay,  per- 
haps entirely  destroy  your  prospects?  Yes!  it  might, 
indeed,  be  so,  for  I  know  the  pride  of  family  and  of  fortune, 
and  I  should,  perchance,  be  enriched  at  your  expense. 
Hear  me!"  he  continued,  as  a  glow  of  enthusiasm  mantled 
on  his  fine  features.  "  As  far  as  I  have  swerved  from  the 
paths  of  wisdom  and  of  virtue,  I  trust  the  precepts  of  my 
early  and  beloved  monitors  have  not  been  entirely  oblite- 
rated, and  that  one  spark  of  generosity  is  yet  left  in  a  heart 
that  may  have  been  rendered  but  too  callous  by  self-indul- 
gence. I  will  not  accept  of  this  gift  of  fortune,  even  if  it  is 
placed  at  my  disposal.  Give  me  but  your  friendly  counsel, 
and  your  own  example,  and  with  the  blessing  of  heaven,  I 
will,  at  once,  break  the  ignoble  bonds  by  which  I  have  so 
long  been  enslaved.  My  income  will  be  amply  sufficient 
for  the  rational  life  I  propose  to  lead,  and  if  this  will  should 
be  restored  to  me,  or  the  plots  of  its  present  possessor  held 
up,  as  may  now  easily  be  done,  to  the  scorn  and  derision  of 
the  world,  I  will  scatter  its  fragments  to  the  winds  of  heaven, 
and  demand  in  return  for  the  sacrifice  only  your  friendship 
and  confidence." 

Medwyn  silently  and  warmly  returned  the  pressure  of  the 
hand  that  rested  in  his  own. 

"  I  appreciate  fully  these  noble  sentiments,"  he  said, 
"and  I  trust  your  generosity  may  be  rewarded  by  a  firm 
adherence  to  your  wise  and  excellent  resolutions.  The 


A  COURT  BALL.  107 

sacrifice  you  contemplate  would  be  great;  and  yet  I  do  not 
for  a  moment  doubt  your  willingness  to  make  it.  From  my 
first  acquaintance  with  you,  de  Vaudemont,  I  have  felt  for 
you  a  fraternal  tenderness,  for  I  at  once  perceived  the 
slumbering  sparks  of  virtue  and  generosity  that  might  be 
awakened  in  your  heart.  You  will  soon  have  an  opportunity 
of  calling  them  into  exercise  by  a  complete  change  in  your 
mode  of  life.  Sir  Frederick  Lansdale  will  never  be  induced 
to  accept  the  sacrifice  you  propose  making  for  his  benefit; 
and  even  were  the  proof  of  your  right  to  his  estate  destroyed 
by  your  hands,  so  delicate  is  his  sense  of  honour,  that  he 
would  feel  himself  only  the  more  imperatively  called  on  to 
relinquish  it.  But  it  will  be  to  him — to  us  all — a  source  of 
congratulation  to  know,  that  his  successor  is  worthy  the  gift 
which  providence  has  been  pleased  to  bestow  on  him,  and 
that  a  noble  and  generous  spirit  will  still  preside  at  Lans- 
dale." 

He  paused,  and  for  some  moments  they  walked  on  slowly 
and  silently.  Absorbed  in  their  reflections,  they  had  turned 
from  the  principal  alley  into  a  narrower  side  walk,  where 
the  glare  of  the  lamps  around  the  jets  d'eau,  no  longer 
enlightened  the  obscurity,  and  they  were  guided  only  by  the 
whiteness  of  the  path,  and  the  occasional  gleam  of  a  marble 
vase  or  statue,  which  marked  their  way. 

Medwyn's  reverie  was  interrupted  by  a  light  and  stealthy 
step  behind  him.  They  turned  at  that  instant,  with  the 
design  of  finding  their  way  back  to  the  more  frequented 
part  of  the  garden,  when  the  figure  of  a  man,  though  almost 
lost  in  the  dark  shadows  around,  glided  hastily  by  them. 
A  few  moments  more  passed,  and  Medwyn's  ear  was  again 
startled  by  the  same  stealthy  footstep  which  had  aroused 
him  from  his  meditations.  He  turned  quickly,  to  assure 
himself  whether  it  were  indeed  an  eves-dropper,  or  only  the 


108  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

swaying  of  the  gigantic  trees  on  either  side,  when  a  sudden 
flash  of  light  illuminated  the  darkness,  and  the  report  of  a 
pistol  awoke  the  echoes  around.  Medwyn's  sudden  move- 
ment, and  the  brilliancy  of  the  light,  conspired  to  reveal  the 
assassin.  As  he  had  raised  the  instrument  of  death  for  its 
murderous  aim,  the  flash  displayed,  too  fully  to  be  mistaken, 
the  dark  features  of  de  Gourville. 

With  the  firm  determination  and  manly  presence  of  mind, 
which,  on  occasions  of  difficulty  and  danger,  always  charac- 
terized him,  Medwyn  sprang  forward,  and  arrested  the 
offender,  who  was  hastily  retreating,  by  seizing  his  arm. 
His  antagonist,  however,  with  wily  subtlety,  instantly 
unfastened  the  thick  mantle  which  was  wrapped  in  heavy 
folds  around  it,  and  as  Medwyn  was  about  to  secure  his 
prisoner,  dexterously  released  his  arm,  and  drew  another 
pistol  from  his  breast.  The  ball  slightly  grazed  Medwyn's 
cheek,  and  in  another  moment  the  assassin  fled,  leaving  to 
his  antagonist  only  the  pistol  and  the  mantle  he  still  held, 
as  the  trophies  of  his  unavailing  victory. 

The  event,  which  it  has  taken  far  more  than  a  minute  to 
record,  passed  in  less  time,  and  Medwyn  returned  to  the 
spot  where  he  had  left  de  Vaudemont.  The  almost  instinc- 
tive feeling  of  apprehension  which  oppressed  his  mind 
was  heightened  by  the  discovery  that  he  was  no  longer 
there,  and  from  hearing  a  deep  sigh,  or  rather  groan  near 
the  place  where  he  stood,  he  found  de  Vaudemont  leaning 
heavily  against  one  of  the  large  marble  vases  on  the  side  of 
the  walk.  One  hand  supported  his  drooping  head,  and 
with  the  other  he  vainly  endeavoured  to  staunch  the  vital 
stream  that  flowed  freely  from  his  side. 

"  Medwyn,"  he  said,  in  a  faint  voice,  as  his  friend,  with 
an  exclamation  of  grief  and  alarm,  sprung  to  his  assistance, 
"I  am  wounded — dangerously  I  am  certain — mortally,  I 


A  COURT  BALL.  109 

fear; — stretch  me  on  the  earth,  which  may  perhaps  be  my 
last  bed,  and  call  for  aid." 

Medwyn  was  about  to  accede  to  the  request,  when  a 
number  of  persons,  attracted  by  the  report  of  the  pistols, 
appeared.  Lights  were  instantly  procured,  and  the  rumour 
of  this  appalling  event  was  rapidly  circulated,  spreading 
dismay  and  agitation  through  the  scene  that  had,  a  moment 
before,  been  all  gaiety  and  happiness. 

The  first  impression  of  the  bystanders  was,  that  the 
wounded  man  was  the  victim  of  a  duel,  and  that  Medwyn 
was  the  aggressor.  Some  hints  to  this  effect  reached  the 
ear  of  de  Vaudemont,  and  though  each  word  he  spoke 
seemed  to  accelerate  the  current  in  which  his  life  was  appa- 
rently ebbing  away,  he  raised  his  voice  to  deny  the  charge. 

"  Let  not  my  death,"  he  said,  "if  it  is  the  will  of  Provi- 
dence that  I  die,  be  laid  to  the  charge  of  my  best  friend.  I 
solemnly  believe  Meurice  de  Gourville  to  be  the  author  of 
this  foul  deed." 

Medwyn's  testimony  was  needless,  though  even  without 
the  proofs  in  his  possession,  his  own  conviction  of  de 
Gourville's  guilt  could  not  have  been  shaken.  These, 
however,  placed  it  beyond  controversy.  Successful  as 
audacious  in  crime,  he  had  not  provided  for  the  contingency 
of  being  arrested  by  a  hand  as  strong  and  a  heart  as  bold 
as  his  own,  and  both  the  pistol  and  the  mantle  bore  the 
initials  of  his  name.  Orders  were  instantly  issued  for  his 
arrest,  while  de  Vaudemont  was  carefully  and  tenderly  con- 
veyed to  a  distant  apartment  in  the  palace,  where  every 
care,  that  friendly  kindness  and  interested  skill  could  bestow, 
was  freely  lavished  on  him.  The  wound  was,  as  he  had 
surmised,  "dangerous — perhaps  mortal."  Such  was  the 
unsatisfactory  answer  of  the  surgeous  to  Medwyn's  anxious 
inquiries. 


110  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 


THE  LAST  HOUR. 

"  Is  death  at  distance?    No — he  hath  been  on  thee, 
And  given  sure  earnest  of  his  final  blow! 

YOUNG. 

THE  contrast  between  the  evening  of  a  brilliant  fete,  and 
the  morning  which  succeeds  it,  has  often  and  skilfully  been 
drawn,  and  all  who  have  participated  in  these  scenes  of 
gaiety,  must  have  felt  and  owned  the  justice  and  fidelity  of 
the  pictures,  sketched  by  the  hand  of  the  poet  as  well  as  the 
artist.  There  is  something  inexpressibly  sad  in  the  idea  of 
withered  garlands, — extinguished  lights, — hushed  music, — 
"the  banquet  hall  deserted," — and  above  all,  in  the  deep 
silence  which  succeeds  the  gay  and  busy  hum  of  the  recently 
assembled  multitude. 

The  bal  a  la  cour  of  Versailles  was  terminated  at  an 
earlier  hour  than  usual,  for  the  happiness  of  the  young 
dauphiness  had  been  overcast  by  the  ominous  and  prophetic 
song  of  the  Improvisatrice;  and  the  startling  event  of  an 
attempt  on  the  life  of  de  Vaudemont,  whose  winning  man- 
ners and  elegant  person  had  rendered  him  a  favourite  in  the 
court  circle,  effectually  banished  all  thought  of  enjoyment 
from  her  mind.  The  scene  gradually  changed, — group  after 
group  disappeared, — the  stentorian  voices,  that  announced 
the  titled  names  at  the  doors  of  the  palace,  became  less 
frequent,  and  the  thundering  sound  of  wheels,  and  the 
stamping  of  impatient  steeds  died  away.  Within,  all  became 
equally  silent  and  deserted.  The  marble  stairway  no  longer 


THE  LAST  HOUR.  Ill 

echoed  with  voices  of  gay  salutation,  or  with  the  sound  of 
multitudes  of  delicate  and  satin-clad  feet, — the  rich  and 
undulating  draperies  of  silken  tapestry  no  longer  waved 
over  the  plumes  and  diamonds  that  had  lent  their  grace  and 
brilliancy  to  the  throng  beneath  them;  and  even  the  attend- 
ants, wearied  by  the  excitement  of  their  recent  exertions, 
retired,  leaving  the  scene  to  darkness  and  oblivion. 

How  many  young  hearts,  that  had  entered  these  splendid 
halls  full  of  hope  and  pride,  withdrew  from  them  in  weari- 
ness and  lassitude!  and  some  there  were  to  whom  the 
change  was  as  great,  as  to  the  gay  multitude  assembled  in 
later  days  at  Brussels,  where  the  pealing  of  the  cannon 
that  announced  the  tremendous  conflict  at  Waterloo,  caused 
the  ball-room  to  be  exchanged  for  the  battle-field. 

Ideas,  such  as  these,  were  rapidly  passing  through  the 
mind  of  Medwyn,  as  he  sat  by  the  couch  of  his  wounded 
friend,  and  gazed  on  his  pale  features,  beautiful  even  in  the 
semblance  of  death.  He  slept, — but  the  slumber  was  heavy 
and  agitated,  and  the  frequent  contraction  of  the  polished 
brow  announced  suffering  and  danger,  and  proved  that  his 
sleep  was  rather  the  eflect  of  the  anodyne,  administered  to 
allay  nervous  excitement,  than  a  natural  visit  of  the  "sweet 
restorer."  The  cold  gray  light  of  morning  stole  through 
the  closed  shutters,  and  gave  a  "deeper  hue  of  paleness" 
to  the  brow  on  which  Medwyn's  eye  was  riveted.  He 
touched  the  hand  that  was  listlessly  stretched  on  the  couch; 
the  pulse  was  feeble  and  fluttering,  and  the  touch,  gentle  as 
it  was,  startled  the  slumberer.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and 
looked,  as  if  unconsciously,  around.  His  gaze  at  length 
rested  on  Medwyn,  and  a  faint,  a  very  faint  smile  illumined 
his  face.  He  was  apparently  making  an  effort  to  speak, 
when  Medwyn  prevented  his  intention  by  laying  his  hand 
on  his  lips.  The  sign  was  understood,  for  he  raised  his 


112  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

own  feeble  hand,  and  pressed  that  of  his  friend  yet  more 
closely  to  his  lips.  There  was  something  inexpressibly 
touching  in  this  mute  acknowledgement  of  the  tender  solici- 
tude that  Medwyn  had  felt  and  manifested  ever  since  the  oc- 
currence of  the  sad  event  which  now  drew  him  to  the  couch 
of  de  Vaudemont,  and  despite  his  efforts  to  prevent  it,  a"  tear 
fell  on  the  wan  cheek  of  his  friend.  The  intensity  of  the 
emotion  that  might  have  overpowered  him,  was  happily  some- 
what dissipated  by  alow  rap  at  the  door,  and  he  rose  to  admit 
the  surgeon,  and  physician,  who  came  to  renew  their  visit. 
The  attendance  of  the  latter  was  given  at  the  special  request 
of  Medwyn,  who  had  long  known  and  prized  him,  not 
only  for  the  extent  of  his  medical  skill,  which  his  success 
had  placed  beyond  all  cavil,  but  for  his  amiable  deportment, 
and  sterling  worth.  He  had,  for  many  years,  attended  Lord 
Belmore  and  his  family,  before  his  present  sojourn  on  the 
continent. 

"  I  am  happy  to  relieve  you  from  your  painful  duty,  Mr. 
Medwyn,"  said  the  benevolent  and  kind-hearted  physician, 
"but  I  fear  I  am  a  messenger  of  evil  as  well  as  good.  I 
shall  be  compelled  to  banish  you  for  the  rest  of  the  morning, 
for  I  regret  to  announce  that  your  father  has  another  attack 
of  the  malady  from  which  he  has  so  recently  been  relieved, 
and  requests  me  to  summon  you  to  him  without  delay.  I 
am  aware  of  the  deep  anxiety  you  feel  for  our  patient,"  he 
continued,  lowering  his  voice  to  a  tone  still  softer  than  that 
in  which  he  had  at  first  spoken,  as  he  observed  the  solicitude 
with  which  Medwyn  regarded  his  friend.  "  I  will  not  give 
you  hopes  that  may,  perhaps,  never  be  realized,  but  I  will 
promise  to  deal  with  you  honestly  and  fairly.  The  case  is 
one  of  the  greatest  difficulty  and  danger,  but  you  may  be 
assured  that  the  most  ceaseless  vigilance  and  attention  will 


THE  LAST  HOUR.  113 

be  united  with  whatever  medical  skill  I  possess  in  his 
behalf." 

Medwyn  pressed  the  hand  of  the  excellent  man  without 
speaking.  His  heart  was  too  full  to  trust  his  voice.  He 
knew  that  Dr.  M.  was  a  man  of  few  words,  but  that  his 
promises  were  sacred,  and  that  whatever  human  skill  and 
benevolence  could  effect,  he  had  secured  for  de  Vaude- 
mont.  With  one  more  anxious  glance  at  the  couch,  where 
his  friend  had  again  sunk  into  a  disturbed  slumber,  he  de- 
parted. 

He  found  his  father  ill,  as  the  kind  physician  had  re- 
presented, but  suffering  more  from  the  effects  of  nervous 
and  mental  agitation,  than  from  his  usual  bodily  infirmity. 
His  manner  was  embarrassed,  and  even  distressed,  as  Med- 
wyn approached  and  with  filial  affection  and  courtesy 
inquired  after  his  health.  Recovering  soon,  however,  his 
wonted  self-possesion,  he  answered  coolly, — 

"I  am  better  this  morning,  far  better  than  I  was  a  few 
hours  ago.  The  shocking  event  of  which  we  received  the 
news  last  night  brought  on  my  attack.  Our  first  account 
here  was  that  you  were  killed." 

Medwyn's  heart  was  deeply  touched  by  this  expression 
of  solicitude  for  his  safety.  His  father's  manner  had  always 
been  cold  and  reserved  towards  him,  and  he  had  never 
before  manifested  such  parental  solicitude.  Alas!  had  he 
known,  that  the  illness  which  he  thought  was  the  effect  of 
anxiety  for  his  welfare  was  brought  on  by  the  stings  of  a 
troubled  conscience,  and  the  idea  that  one  who  had  been 
honoured  with  the  friendship  and  confidence  of  Lord  Bel  more 
should  be  arraigned  as  an  assassin,  how  would  it  have  chilled 
his  generous  emotions!  but  the  real  causes  of  his  father's 
nervous  excitement  were  concealed,  and  Medwyn  gratefully 


114  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

acknowledged  the  kindness  thus  apparently  expressed  to- 
ward him. 

"  I  am  happy  to  hear  these  expressions  of  filial  affection 
and  duty,  Percy,"  said  Lord  Belfnore,  "for  I  am  about  to 
put  your  generosity  to  the  proof.  Aware  of  the  anxiety 
you  naturally  feel  to  return  home,  I  should  not,  under  cir- 
cumstances less  urgent,  prefer  my  present  request,  which  is, 
that  you  will  accompany  me  to  Italy,  and  remain  there  with 
me  two  or  three  months." 

Medwyn  started  at  this  unexpected  proposition,  so  dif- 
ferent was  the  disposition  he  had  already,  in  his  own  mind, 
made  of  those  coming  months.  Lord  Belmore  had  antici- 
pated the  embarrassment  and  unwillingness  with  which  his 
claim  would  be  met.  He  looked  fixedly  at  the  changing 
countenance  of  his  son,  and  then,  with  a  sigh,  withdrew  hia 
eyes. 

"It  was  an  idle  hope,"  he  said,  "the  choice  between  a 
father  and  a  dearer  object  is  easily  made.  I  must  then  go 
alone, — live  alone, — perhaps  die  alone.  I  shall  strive  to  be 
resigned  to  my  fate." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  in  a  low  tone,  and  as  if  the 
speaker  were  soliloquizing; — but  they  fell  with  painful  vivid- 
ness on  the  ear  for  which  they  were  designed.  Had  his 
father  demanded  such  a  sacrifice  in  an  imperative  tone,  it 
might  have  awakened  a  spirit  of  resistance  to  a  requisition 
so  unreasonable;  but  there  was  an  irresistible  eloquence  in 
that  languid  form  and  those  subdued  tones,  that  arrested 
Medwyn's  eye  and  ear. 

"Yes!"  continued  Lord  Belmore,  "you  have  now  a 
right  to  be  master  of  your  own  actions;  I  have  no  design  to 
command,  and  it  is,  perhaps,  in  vain  to  entreat." 

"  My  father!"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  overwhelmed 
by  the  conflicting  emotions  which  agitated  his  mind,  "  I 


THE  LAST  HOUR.  115 

will  do  anything  you  wish,  but  allow  me  one  privilege 
first; — that  of  returning  home  for  a  few  days,  and  I  will 
then  endeavour  to  prove  my  gratitude  for  your  paternal 
kindness.'" 

"  The  sacrifice  will  then  be  unavailing,"  replied  Lord 
Belmore.  "  I  am  commanded  by  my  physicians  to  leave 
this  place  immediately,  and  to  go,  even  before  recovered 
from  my  present  attack,  by  short  and  easy  stages,  to  a  more 
congenial  clime.  The  winter  is  just  approaching,  and  I 
shall  have  time  to  reach  the  south  before  its  rigour  is  severely 
felt.  The  anxiety  I  feel  to  hasten  my  departure  is,  more- 
over, heightened  by  the  circumstances  attendant  on  the 
attempted  assassination  of  de  Vaudemont.  Should  de 
Gourville  be  arrested,  as  the  vigilance  of  the  police  gives 
every  assurance  he  will  be,  you  will  most  probably  be 
detained  to  give  evidence  against  him,  as  the  only  material 
witness.  A  few  more  days,  and  the  only  opportunity  I 
may  ever  enjoy  of  ameliorating  my  health,  nay,  perhaps, 
of  saving  my  life,  will  be  lost." 

Lord  Belmore  ceased  speaking,  and  again  looked  earnestly 
at  his  son.  The  latter  part  of  his  appeal  carried  with  it  the 
conviction  of  truth,  for  his  wasted  form  and  sunken  cheek 
spoke  more  eloquently  than  words  could  have  done. 

"I  do  not  insist  on  a  definitive  answer  at  this  moment, 
Percy,"  he  continued.  "  I  shall  await  your  decision  a  few 
hours  hence.  I  must  endeavour  to  rest  for  the  present,  for 
my  own  resolution  to  follow  the  advice  of  my  physicians 
is  taken.  I  shall  depart  for  the  south  immediately." 

Medwyn  retired  with  a  heavy  hearl  from  the  sick  chamber 
of  his  father.  His  mind  was  embarrassed  almost  to  distrac- 
tion by  the  variety  of  emotions  with  which  it  was  agitated. 
The  unaccountable  silence  of  his  distant  friends  perplexed 
and  alarmed  him,  and  he  had  heretofore  only  been  reconciled 


116  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

to  remaining  on  the  continent,  by  the  prospect  of  a  speedy 
return  to  them.  What  might  they  not  think  of  his  continued 
absence  at  a  moment  when  he  so  ardently  desired  to  prove 
the  depth  and  sincerity  of  his  attachment? — would  they  not 
have  reason  to  suspect  him  of  duplicity?  and  then  how 
could  he  plead  his  cause  when  so  fearful  a  distance  separated 
them?  He  well  knew  that  it  would  demand  all, — nay, 
more  he  feared,  than  all, — his  eloquence  to  reconcile  Sir 
Frederick  Lansdale  to  his  union  with  his  now  portionless 
daughter;  and  even  the  guileless  and  confiding  Ellen  would 
have  but  too  much  cause  to  distrust  the  sincerity  of  his 
professions,  if  he  remained  so  long  absent  at  a  period 
fraught  with  difficulty  and  distress  to  herself  as  well  as  her 
loved  parent. 

Then  came  the  image  of  de  Vaudemont.  His  pale  face 
and  inanimate  form  seemed  to  reproach  him  with  the 
cruelty  of  leaving  him  to  his  probable  fate.  It  was  true, 
that  their  attachment  was  of  recent  date,  but  there  was 
something  in  the  confiding  affection  which  de  Vaudemont 
seemed  to  bear  to  him,  that  deeply  touched  his  heart;  and 
he  had  every  reason  to  hope,  that  if  his  life  were,  by  the 
mercy  of  Providence,  spared,  he  would  rise  from  his  couch 
of  languishing,  a  wiser  and  a  better  man.  The  sacrifice 
he  had  contemplated,  and  so  fervently  expressed  his  deter- 
mination to  make,  during  their  conversation  just  before  the 
attempt  of  de  Gourville  upon  his  life,  proved  not  only 
the  depth  of  his  attachment  to  himself,  but  the  noble 
generosity  of  a  soul  that  had  only  been  warped  from  its 
original  excellence,  and  which,  under  different  circumstances 
from  those  in  which  he  had  been  placed,  might  have  brought 
to  maturity  the  fruits  of  those  seeds  of  virtue  and  wisdom 
which  had  been  in  his  early  life  implanted  in  it.  He  had 
anxiously  and  affectionately  sought  the  counsel  and  friend- 


THE  LAST  HOUR.  117 

ship  of  Medwyn,  whom  he  evidently  regarded  as  the  moni- 
tor to  guide  his  future  course,  and  preserve  him  from  the 
snares  in  which  he  had,  alas!  been  so  fatally  entangled. 
To  leave  him  now,  on  his  couch  of  pain,  perhaps  of  death, 
would  seem  to  be  treacherous  as  well  as  cruel.  But  then, 
— a  father's  wishes, — entreaties, — his  life  perhaps  depend- 
ent on  the  faithful  discharge  of  filial  duty. 

"The  sacrifice  is  great,  indeed!"  said  Medwyn  inter- 
nally, with  a  heavy  sigh,  "  but  it  is  one  which  heaven  will 
regard  with  approbation.  In  ordinary  cases,  'it  is  a  small 
matter  to  be  judged  of  man,'  but  in  the  present  instance, 
those  whom  I  most  prize  and  love  will  have  too  much  rea- 
son to  condemn  my  apparent  neglect.  Painful  as  it  is, 
however,  I  will  not  swerve  from  the  path  of  duty. — My 
decision  is  made." 

"  I  await  your  commands,  my  father,"  he  said,  when, 
after  an  absence  of  a  few  hours,  during  which  he  had  again 
visited  de  Vaudemont,  he  re-entered  Lord  Belmore's  cham- 
ber. "  I  have  been  to  bid  an  adieu,  perhaps  a  final  one," 
and  his  voice  faltered, — "  to  my  wounded  friend,  though 
I  have,  at  least,  the  consolation  of  knowing,  that  he  is  in 
faithful  and  competent  hands.  I  am  now  ready  to  depart 
at  any  hour  you  may  indicate." 

Lord  Belmore  knew  too  well  the  strict  principles  of  duty, 
by  which  his  son  was  ever  guided,  to  have  doubted  the 
result  of  his  reflections  on  the  proposition  he  had  made. 
His  preparations  were  already  completed,  and  ere  the  day 
was  terminated,  they  were  several  leagues  distant  from  the 
metropolis. 

The  season  was  one  which  presented  no  temptation  to 
the  traveller  to  linger  on  the  route,  and  the  anxiety  of  Lord 
Belmore  to  reach  his  destination  during  the  fine  weather, 
which  happily  favoured  their  journey,  stimulated  him  to  a 


118  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

degree  of  exertion  that  under  other  circumstances  he  would 
have  believed  it  impossible  for  him  to  make.  The  barriers, 
which  nature  has  placed  between  the  northern  and  southern 
regions  of  Europe,  were  passed  with  far  less  difficulty  than 
they  had  apprehended,  and  our  travellers  soon  found  them- 
selves established  in  Florence. 

Had  Medwyn's  mind  been  more  at  ease,  a  visit  to  this 
land  of  poetry  and  romance,  of  music  and  of  song,  would 
have  been  to  him  a  source  of  the  highest  gratification. 
Italy  is  emphatically  the  land  of  music; — even  the  ordinary 
greetings  of  the  peasantry,  as  in  their  classic  costumes  they 
return  laden  with  the  spoils  of  the  vineyard  to  their  humble 
homes,  have  something  of  the  rich  harmony  of  recitative 
music.  Gladly  would  Medwyn  have  availed  himself  of 
the  opportunity  of  studying  those  splendid  specimens  of  art 
left  in  this  favoured  land  by  the  hand  of  a  Raphael, — a 
Correggio, — a  Titian,  and  by  all  the  illustrious  band  who 
have  left  the  impress  of  an  art,  which,  exerted  by  them  on 
the  holiest  themes,  may  almost  claim  a  right  to  the  sacred 
epithet  so  often  bestowed  on  it,  of  "  divine."  This  is  the 
charm  which  gives  to  the  Madonna  de  la  Segiola  a  supe- 
riority even  over  "  the  statue  which  enchants  the  world." 
Venus  de  Medici  cannot  boast  the  holy  beauty  that  breathes 
in  every  lineament  of  the  mother  of  the  infant  Saviour. 

But  beside  the  anxiety  that  oppressed  the  mind  of  Med- 
wyn in  his  waking  hours,  and  haunted  his  restless  couch, 
the  attention  required  by  his  father's  illness,  occupied 
almost  his  whole  time.  The  mind  of  Lord  Belmore  was 
evidently  ill  at  ease,  and  deprived  as  he  now  was  of  the 
resources  of  society  that  offered  him  such  attraction  in  the 
metropolis  of  France,  he  became  restless  and  impatient. 
Rome, — Naples,  were  visited  and  forsaken,  and  even  the 
"City  of  the  Hundred  Isles,"  though  farther  north  than 


THE  LAST  HOUR.  119 

the  advice  of  his  physicians  warranted,  was,  for  the  sake  of 
variety,  made  the  place  of  their  sojournment.  The  chilling 
breezes  of  the  Adriatic  soon  warned  the  invalid  of  his  im- 
, prudent  choice,  and  Venice  was  exchanged  for  Milan. 
There,  for  a  while,  he  found  relief  in  the  charms  of  a  soci- 
ety, of  which  the  illutrious  family  of  Visconti  then,  as  now, 
were  the  highest  ornaments. 

"  I  believe  it  is  in  vain  to  deceive  myself  longer,  Percy," 
said  he  with  a  sigh,  as  he  sat  one  evening  near  an  open 
window  to  enjoy  the  first  breath  of  spring  that  was  wafted 
through  the  orange  grove  near  it.  "  This  air  is  soft  and 
balmy,  but  yet  it  is  not  enough  so  to  revive  me.  Close  the 
window,  and  draw  your  chair  closer  to  mine.  I  feel 
strangely  oppressed  this  evening; — my  voice  would  be  lost 
to  you  at  that  distance." 

Medwyn  immediately  replaced  in  his  portfolio  the  draw- 
ing materials  with  which  he  had  beguiled  a  tedious  hour, 
in  sketching  the  facade  of  a  neighbouring  cathedral,  and 
approached  the  spot  where  his  father  sat.  There  was  an 
unusual  degree  of  agitation  in  Lord  Belmore's  manner, 
which  alarmed  his  son,  and  he  was  about  to  ring  for  attend- 
ants, when  his  father  arrested  him,  and  by  a  silent  gesture 
indicated  his  wish  that  he  should  occupy  the  seat  near  him. 

"  You  have  been  attentive  and  dutiful  to  me,  Percy,"  he 
said,  "  during  my  stay  in  this  foreign  land.  Nay,"  he 
continued,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  why  should  I  limit  it 
to  that  period?  You  have  never  failed  in  the  duty  you  owe 
to  me;  would  to  God  I  could  make  a  similar  boast  of  my 
fidelity  to  you!" 

Again  he  paused,  and  his  agitation  became  extreme. 

"  Do  not  interrupt  me,  Percy,"  he  continued,  as  his  son 
was  about  to  speak.  "  I  know  what  you  would  say.  The 
goodness  of  your  heart  would  palliate  rny  errors; — but  listen 


120  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

to  me.  The  warnings  I  have  received,  that  I  have  not  long 
to  live,  have  been  recently  too  often  repeated  to  be  disre- 
garded. Until  recently  I  have  never  known  how  much  I  lost 
by  keeping  you  at  such  a  distance  from  me,  and  your  affec-^ 
tionate  attentions  have  softened  a  heart,  alas!  but  too  obdu- 
rate. Can  you  believe,  that  the  generous  sacrifices  you 
have  made  to  me  have  been  repaid  by  treachery  and  decep- 
tion? yet  it  is  even  so: — The  pride  of  earthly  distinction 
and  the  world's  wealth  are  fading  before  me,  and  I  see  their 
vanity  now  that  I  am  in  sight  of"  that  bourne  whence  no 
traveller  returns."  I  have  wronged  you,  Percy, — and  those 
that  well  deserve  to  be  nearer  and  dearer  to  you  than  a 
father,  whose  duties  have  never  been  fulfilled  towards  you. 
With  shame  and  grief  do  I  make  the  confession," — he 
paused  as  if  to  recover  strength  to  proceed,  and  a  bright 
spot  for  a  moment  burned  in  his  cheek.  "  I  have  been 
instrumental  in  separating  you  yet  more  widely  from  them 
than  even  by  the  fearful  distance  that  the  land  and  sea  have 
spread  between  you.  I  have  destroyed  the  memorials  of 
affection  and  remembrance  that  on  either  side  were  entrusted 
to  my  hands." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  handkerchief  as  he  spoke, 
for  the  look  of  agonized  reproach,  which  he  read  in  the  in- 
genuous countenance  of  his  son,  was  more  than  he  could 
bear. 

'*  I  have  more  to  say  to  you,"  he  said,  "  but  this  painful 
theme  overpowers  me.  Leave  me  for  the  present,  Percy. 
When  you  know  all,  I  fear  you  will  regard  me  as  indeed 
less  than  a  father; — but  you  will  at  least, — forgive  me." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  in  a  broken  and  tremulous 
voice,  and  they  penetrated  Medwyn's  heart.  He  sank  on 
his  knee  and  pressed  his  father's  emaciated  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  Rather  let  me  ask  forgiveness,"  he  exclaimed,  "  for 


THE  LAST  HOUR.  121 

my  rebellious  heart  has,  I  fear,  been  but  too  apparent  in  the 
manner  in  which  I  have  received  this  appalling  intelligence. 
Forgive  and  bless  me,  my  father,  before  I  leave  you!" 

Lord  Belmore  laid  his  trembling  hand  silently  on  the 
noble  head  that  was  thus  bowed  in  meek  submission  be- 
neath it.  Another  moment,  and  Medwyn  had  summoned 
the  attendants,  and  was  pacing  his  own  apartment. 

It  would  be  a  vain  attempt  to  describe  the  distressing 
emotions  awakened  in  his  mind  by  the  confession  of  his 
father.  A  thousand  dark  and  appalling  images  flitted  be- 
fore him.  This,  then,  was  the  cause  of  the  strange,  cold, 
unaccountable  silence  of  his  loved  friends.  And  what  was 
at  that  moment  passing  in  their  minds  with  regard  to  his 
apparent  conduct?  was  it  not  enough  that  his  hope  of  a 
union  with  the  being  dearest  on  earth  should  be  deferred, 
perhaps  destroyed,  but  that  he  must  be  lowered  in  her  esti- 
mation and  appear  in  the  light  of  a  hyprocrite — a  deceiver? 
He  dared  not  think  of  the  agency  of  his  father  in  the  trans- 
action of  which  he  had  just  spoken; — the  reflection  crim- 
soned his  cheek.  Thoughts,  tender  and  soft,  were  mingled 
with  the  darker  current  that  rushed  unbidden  through  his 
mind,  as  he  hastily  paced  the  room. 

The  night  was  far  advanced,  when,  exhausted  with  the 
violence  of  his  feelings,  he  threw  himsolf  on  his  couch,  and 
fell  into  a  heavy  and  disturbed  slumber.  The  images  of 
Sir  Frederick  Lansdale,— of  Ellen, — of  de  Vaudemont, — of 
his  father,  alternately  flitted  before  him.  Even  the  slight 
form  of  Ismene,  as  he  had  last  seen  her,  with  her  pale  cheek 
shaded  by  the  black  veil  that  threw  its  funereal  folds  around 
her,  mingled  with  the  group  of  shadowy  images.  Again 
were  her  dark  imploring  eyes  fixed  in  mournful  "  perusal 
of  his  face;"— she  seemed  to  approach  him  near,  and  yet 
nearer,  until  at  last  she  laid  her  hand  on  his.  Its  touch  was 
9 


122  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

icy  cold; — he  started,  and  awoke  from  his  dreamy  vision. 
A  hand  rested  on  his  own,  and  it  was  indeed,  icy  cold  and 
trembling.  He  looked  up,  and  his  father's  favourite  attend- 
ant stood  befoie  him. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  rouse  you  from  your  sleep,  Mr.  Med- 
wyn,"  he  said,  "but  we  knew  not  what  to  do  without 
alarming  you.  I  fear  my  lord  is  very  ill  this  morning.  If 
you  please,"!  will  show  you  to  his  chamber." 

Medwyn  hastily  wrapped  his  robe  de  chambre  around 
him,  and  followed  his  father's  valet.  He  approached  the 
couch  softly,  and  looked  for  a  moment  at  the  form  before 
him.  One  glance  was  sufficient  to  assure  him  of  the  terrible 
reality. — His  father  was  no  more! 

"Forgive  me,  Mr.  Medwyn,"  said  the  valet,  as  he  saw 
the  deadly  paleness  that  overspread  his  features,  while  he 
supported  him  to  another  room;  "  I  suspected  the  sad  truth, 
but  I  dared  not  announce  it.  These  are  strange  people,  and 
I  feared  that  without  your  testimony,  his  lordship's  servants 
might  have  been  accused  of  his  sudden  death." 

Medwyn  was  inexpressibly  shocked  by  this  unexpected 
event.  It  was  true,  that  his  father's  health  had  been  for 
some  time  past  precarious,  but  he  had  never  for  a  moment 
imagined  his  life  to  be  so  near  its  close.  Until  a  few  months 
past,  he  had  been  accustomed  to  regard  him  almost  as  a 
stranger,  and  had  he,  before  that  time,  heard  of  this  visitation 
of  Providence,  it  would  probably  have  awakened  no  other 
emotion  than  that  of  awe.  But  now  he  wept  with  filial 
tenderness  and  sincerity  over  those  remains  which  were 
destined  to  be 

"By  strangers  honour'd,  and  by  strangers  mourn'd." 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

"  Ne  me  plaignez  pas, — si  vous  saviez  combien  de  peines  ce 
tombeau  m'&  epargn^es!" 

IT  may  be  easily  imagined,  that  Medwyn's  return  was 
delayed  no  longer  than  the  obsequies  of  his  father,  and  a 
necessary  attention  to  his  affairs,  demanded.  A  few  days 
found  him  on  his  way  to  the  metropolis  of  France,  whence 
he  determined  to  return  immediately  home.  The  season 
had  been  one  of  unusual  mildness,  and  though  the  early 
spring  is  generally  dangerous  for  travellers  amid  the  Alps, 
the  route  was  passable  through  a  portion  of  Switzerland, 
and  he  selected  it  in  preference  to  the  one  by  which  he  had 
gone  to  the  south.  He  accomplished  the  passage  of  the 
mountains  with  less  difficulty  than  he  had  anticipated,  and 
arrived  safely  in  the  valley  on  the  northern  side.  The 
region  which  he  was  now  traversing  is  one  of  peculiar 
beauty  and  interest,  aud  had  it  been  a  more  propitious  sea- 
son, and  his  mind  less  harassed  by  painful  reflections,  the 
wild  and  beautiful  freaks  of  nature,  which  met  his  eye  at 
every  turn,  could  not  have  failed  to  attract  the  admiration  of 
Medwyn.  His  route  lay  by  the  lovely  lake  of  Geneva, 
and  the  frowning  towers  of  the  chateau  of  Chillon,  and  the 
rocks  of  Mellierie  gave  to  its  natural  charms  a  wilder  and 
more  romantic  interest. 

Just  before  entering  on  the  picturesque  vicinity  of  Lau- 
sanne, and  while  his  route  yet  followed  the  course  of  the 
Rhone,  his  attention  was  drawn  to  the  singular  and  lofty 


124  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

position  of  an  isolated  church  in  the  midst  of  the  valley 
through  which  he  was  rapidly  hastening.  The  delay,  inci- 
dent to  a  change  of  horses  in  the  village  at  its  base,  afforded 
him  time  to  ascend  the  elevated  eminence  on  which  the 
church  rested.  As  he  approached  it,  the  soft  and  solemn 
chant  of  a  funeral  dirge  met  his  ear.  The  sound  was  sooth- 
ing to  a  mind  ill  at  ease,  and  he  gently  approached  and 
entered.  The  large  wax  lights  were  burning  on  the  altar, 
and  a  procession  of  priests  in  their  sombre  robes  were  as- 
sembled near  it.  Clouds  of  incense  threw  their  perfume 
around,  and  gave  a  still  more  solemn  and  impressive  effect 
to  the  soft  strains  of  the  Stabat  mater  dolorosa,  which  stole 
in  gently  breathing  melody  through  the  darkened  aisles. 
The  procession  began  its  march  through  them,  and  Med- 
wyn  retired  through  the  door  he  had  first  entered,  to  per- 
mit the  continuance  of  their  rites.  His  attention  was  there 
arrested  by  the  interesting  appearance  of  a  young  man, 
who  seemed  absorbed  in  deep  and  melancholy  meditation. 
As  Medwyn  passed  near  him,  he  started,  and  politely  sa- 
luted him.  They  were,  apparently,  both  strangers,  and 
this  circumstance,  together  with  the  subdued  expression  of 
sadness  that  marked  the  brow  of  each,  touched  the  "  electric 
chain"  of  sympathy,  and  Medwyn  accosted  him. 

"These  ceremonies  possess  unusual  interest  to  me,"  said 
the  stranger,  in  reply  to  the  remark  addressed  to  him.  "  I 
knew  well  the  young  and  gifted  being  they  are  designed 
to  honour.  She  was  not  a  native  of  this  spot;  her  wild  and 
splendid  genius  was  the  offspring  of  a  warmer  clime,  but 
she  was  the  adopted  child  of  the  canton  of  Valais,  and  the 
exquisite  music  of  the  Improvisatrice  will  long  be  remem- 
bered here,  as  in  more  civilized  places;  for  her  exquisite 
talent  was  perfected  amid  more  luxurious  scenes,  and  dis- 
played in  the  halls  of  princes.  In  an  evil  hour  she  was 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT.  125 

betrayed  from  the  home  that  had  been  for  many  years  blest 
by  her  presence,  leaving  a  dark  void  in  the  circle  she  had 
once  lightened  with  her  smile.  The  aged  and  drooping 
forms,  you  doubtless  observed  in  the  procession,  were  her 
parents.  Happily  they  were  permitted  to  grant  their  for- 
giveness and  their  blessing  to  the  poor  Ismene." 

The  stranger  paused,  for  Medwyn  was  startled  by  the 
name  he  had  just  uttered.  The  coincidence  was  too  perfect 
to  admit  of  a  doubt.  It  was  then  the  minstrel  of  Versailles, 
who  had  accomplished  her  last  wish, — that  of  "  returning 
to  her  humble  home,  to  die."  The  unbidden  tears  sprang 
to  his  eyes  as  he  recalled  the  remembrance  of  the  wild  and 
beautiful  strains  which  rang  in  his  ear  when  last  he  had 
seen  her, — and  the  brilliant  images  of  that  eventful  evening 
crowded  upon  his  mind. 

"  The  Improvisatrice  then  returned  to  her  parents  and 
home?"  he  inquired,  "  and  did  she  obtain  the  entire  for- 
giveness of  those  whom  she  had  so  deeply  wounded,  and 
so  justly  offended?" 

"  They  would  have  been  hard-hearted  indeed,"  returned 
the  stranger,  "  if  they  could  have  withheld  the  blessing  so 
imploringly  and  so  humbly  sought.  When  she  re-appeared 
here,  after  her  long  absence,  her  once  beaming  smile  had 
departed,  and  the  lustre  of  her  dark  eye  was  dimmed.  The 
peasants  watched,  with  superstitious  awe,  her  shadowy 
form  as  it  slowly  disappeared  in  the  mountain  mist,  when 
she  rambled  in  the  dusk  of  evening,  to  avoid  the  inquisitive 
eyes  that  were  turned  on  her  wherever  she  was  seen.  Yet 
they  regarded  her  with  affection  as  well  as  wonder,  for 
there  was  still  magic  in  the  lightest  tones  of  that  exquisite 
voice,  and  her  very  words  were  music.  She  soon  regained 
her  influence  over  the  simple  hearts  she  had  left,  and  when, 
as  a  wreath  from  the  mist  of  yonder  dashing  waterfall,  she 


126  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

disappeared  from  their  view  for  ever,  they  wept  her  depar- 
ture as  tenderly  as  if  she  had  never  strayed  from  their  cot- 
tage. Peace  be  with  thee,  hapless  Ismene!" 

Medwyn  silently  but  fervently  joined  in  the  blessing  in- 
voked by  the  stranger.  They  descended  the  steep  together, 
and  reached  the  village,  where,  after  exchanging  a  cordial 
adieu,  they  separated. 

Painfully  occupied  as  was  the  mind  of  our  traveller,  he 
was  not  insensible  to  the  charms  of  the  lovely  country 
through  which  he  was  now  passing.  The  beautiful  lake 
of  Geneva  glowed  in  the  sun-light  with  prismatic  colours, 
and  the  snowy  summits  of  the  Alps  beyond  it  were  relieved 
against  the  brilliant  azure  of  a  cloudless  sky.  The  vicinity 
of  the  towns  through  which  he  passed,  brought  the  image 
of  the  home  he  had  left  forcibly  to  his  mind,  and  every 
variety  of  woodland,  of  hill  and  dale,  of  hawthorn  hedges, 
and  of  tasteful  cottages  that  adorn  the  Isle  of  Wight,  were 
here  mingled  with  the  wild  scenery  of  Switzerland. 

The  rich  and  smiling  valley  was  passed,  and  the  route 
now  led  among  the  rugged  passes  of  the  mountains  of  Jura. 
Medwyn  turned  to  take  a  last  lingering  look  at  the  scenery 
he  was  leaving,  as  he  attained  the  summit  that  commands 
the  most  extensive  view  of  it.  On  each  side  lay  the  moun- 
tains amid  which  he  was  about  to  enter, — high,  craggy  and 
dark, — beautifully  contrasted  with  the  distant  Alps,  whose 
soft  and  aerial  blue  seemed  to  melt  into  the  broad  and 
calm  waters  of  the  lake  below.  There  lay  the  lovely  and 
peaceful  valley,  with  its  fertile  fields  and  villages  and  farm 
houses,  and  far  beyond  the  lake, — so  distant  as  to  resemble 
the  white  vapour  that  floated  around  it, — rose  the  Alpine 
king,  Mont  Blanc.  • ' 

The  bright  picture  was  soon  concealed  from  his  view  by 
a  huge  promontory  of  rock  that  formed  an  angle  in  the 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT.  127 

road,  and  the  remainder  of  the  route  for  the  next  two  days, 
presented  scenery  too  wild  and  savage  to  claim  much  atten- 
tion or  admiration.  The  vine-clad  hills  of  Burgundy  at 
length  appeared,  and  the  rest  of  the  journey  through  la 
Belle  France  was  performed  with  all  the  celerity  which  a 
smooth  country,  fresh  post-horses,  and  well  paid  postillions 
could  ensure. 

Medwyn  returned  to  his  hotel  in  the  metropolis,  with  a 
heart  throbbing  with  anxiety.  The  distance  which  had 
separated  him  from  de  Vaudemont,  and  his  constant  change 
of  place,  had  deprived  him  of  whatever  communications  he 
might  otherwise  have  received,  and  no  word  or  line,  that 
gave  him  any  hope  of  his  recovery,  had  ever  reached  him. 
He  dared  not  trust  himself  to  think  of  what  might  have 
been  his  fate.  His  image  constantly  rose  before  him  as  he 
had  last  seen  him, — pale, — inanimate,  and  stretched  on  his 
couch  of  pain,  from  which  he  would,  most  probably, 
never  arise.  His  imagination  pictured  his  friend  calling  on 
him  in  his  last  moments,  and  reproaching  him  with  the 
cruelty  of  thus  quitting  him  in  his  utmost  need. 

Sucli  were  the  ideas  that  flitted  through  his  mind,  as  he 
descended  from  the  post-coach  at  the  door  of  the  hotel; 
whence  he  instantly  despatched  a  note  to  Dr.  M.  With 
unspeakable  impatience  and  anxiety  he  paced  the  apart- 
ment, pausing  with  breathless  eagerness  to  catch  the  sound 
of  every  passing  footstep,  as  the  time  arrived  for  the  proba- 
ble return  of  his  messenger.  An  hour  passed,  and  the 
delay  became  too  painful  to  admit  of  longer  endurance.  He 
was  hastily  leaving  the  room,  with  the  determination  of  ac- 
complishing, in  person,  the  object  which  he  now  blamed 
himself  for  entrusting  to  less  faithful  hands,  when  the  door 
was  thrown  open,  and  the  anxiously  expected  visitor  ap- 
peared. 


128  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

Medwyn  looked  earnestly  in  his  face  without  speaking, 
as  he  grasped  his  hand.  The  glance  that  met  his  was  one 
of  condolence  and  sympathy,  and  his  heart  sank. 

"  I  may  then,  I  fear,  apprehend  the  worst,"  he  said,  in  a 
voice  which  expressed  the  intensity  of  his  feelings.' 

Dr.  M.  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  of  surprise. 
"  The  worst,"  he  said,  "  has  already  been  announced  here. 
We  learned  yesterday,  that  Lord  Belmore  died  suddenly  a 
few  days  since." 

Medwyn  breathed  more  freely.  He  had  then  been  mis- 
understood, and  there  might  yet  be  hope. 

"  My  apprehensions,"  he  said,  "  were  for  my  friend,  de 
Vaudemont. — In  one  word, — tell  me; — does  he  still  live?" 

The  kind-hearted  physician  was  almost  overpowered  by 
the  deep  sigh  which  burst  from  the  heart  of  Medwyn,  and 
the  ejaculation  of  thankfulness,  which  involuntarily  flowed 
from  his  lips  as  he  received  his  answer. 

"  He  lives,"  he  said,  "  and  though  still  confined  to  his 
house,  to  which  he  has  been  recently  removed,  you  will  find 
him  rapidly  recovering.  Nay,"  he  continued,  as  Medwyn 
hurried  from  the  room,  "  you  must  remember  that  I  am  now, 
comparatively,  an  old  man,  and  that  I  cannot,  as  you  do, 
leap  with  the  speed  of  a  chamois  down  this  spiral  stairway. 
Let  me  have  the  benefit  of  your  young  and  vigorous  arm, 
and  in  return  for  your  assistance,  I  will  conduct  you  to 
your  friend." 

"  The  bird  has  flown,  I  find,"  he  continued,  as  they 
entered  de  Vaudemont's  apartments,  and  found  them  unten- 
anted.  "  He  had  my  permission  to  take  the  air,  for  the 
first  time  since  his  accident,  for  half  an  hour  to-day.  Had 
I  known  what  happiness  was  in  store  for  him,  I  should  not 
so  readily  have  granted  the  permission." 

"  Happiness  indeed!"  exclaimed  a  well  known  voice  near 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT.  1£9 

Medwyn's  ear.     He  turned,  and  was  locked  in  the  embrace 
of  his  young  friend. 

The  benevolent  physician  looked  with  swimming  eyes 
on  the  overflowing  of  these  two  youthful  and  generous 
hearts,  and  then,  faltering  out  an  excuse  for  his  departure, 
abruptly  retreated,  leaving  them  to  the  enjoyment  of  their 
newly  restored  happiness. 

"You  find  me,  I  trust,"  said  de  Vaudemont,  as  Med- 
wyn  seated  himself  by  the  couch,  on  which  his  friend 
reclined  to  repose  himself  after  the  unusual  exertion  of 
his  morning  drive,  "  as  you  have  often  kindly  predicted 
I  should  be,  a  wiser,  if  not  a  better  man  than  I  was  before 
the  occurrence  of  the  event  which  so  nearly  terminated 
my  existence.  After  you  left  me,  my  life  was,  for  some 
time,  despaired  of,  and  it  appears  almost  a  miracle,  that  I 
have  been  snatched  from  the  premature  fate  which  seemed 
hourly  awaiting  me.  At  that  awful  period,  how  vain,  and 
worse  than  vain,  appeared  to  my  sobered  thoughts  the 
course  of  life  in  which  I  had  been  indulging.  My  fol- 
lies, as  the  world,  with  too  much  levity,  would  call  them, 
magnified  themselves  into  crimes  of  the  deepest  dye. 
The  revered  images  of  my  early  friends  and  monitors,  my 
father  and  my  guardian,  flitted  before  my  restless  couch, 
and  their  sad  and  solemn  warnings,  that  had  in  my  thought- 
less hours  been  so  often  disregarded,  rang  in  my  ear,  while 
their  kind  glances  of  reproachful  tenderness  penetrated  my 
heart.  The  remembrance  of  misused  talents, — of  wasted 
time, — of  opportunities  of  once  more  finding  the  paths  of 
wisdom  and  piety,  from  which  I  had  strayed,  neglected, 
lost — perhaps,  for  ever,  weighed  down  my  spirit,  and 
almost  crushed  it  beneath  a  load  of  despair.  But  a  bright 
and  blessed  light  has  since  shown  amid  that  Ethiopian  dark- 
ness, and  I  have  arisen  as  if  from  the  remembrance  of  a 


130  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

frightful  dream,  with  a  firm  determination,  not  in  my  own 
strength,  which  T  now  feel  to  be  weakness, — but  by  the 
help  of  that  Almighty  arm  on  which  I  now  lean  for  help, 
and  which  will  never  fail  me,  to  walk  henceforth  in  the 
paths  of  true  wisdom." 

Medwyn's  heart  swelled  high  with  gratitude  and  joy,  as 
he  watched  the  beautiful  expression  of  the  animated  coun- 
tenance on  which  his  eyes  were  fixed.  Sincerity,  deep, 
strong,  and  holy,  was  painted  there  in  letters  of  living  light, 
and  he  could  only  press  the  hand  that  clasped  his  own. 

"  You  will  find  me  unchanged,"  continued  de  Vaude- 
mont,  with  a  smile,  "only  in  one  determination, — that  of 
endeavouring  to  restore  the  gift  of  fortune, — which,  with  her 
usual  blindness  she  has  bestowed  on  one  who  needs,  as  little 
as  he  merits  it, — to  those  who  are  worthier  of  her  favours. 
If  your  design  is  to  remain  here  for  some  weeks,  I  shall,  at 
the  end  of  that  time,  be  sufficiently  restored  to  accompany 
you  home,  and  our  united  persuasions  may  accomplish 
much." 

"  I  fear  I  should  be  a  poor  advocate  in  a  cause  where  the 
interest  I  have  at  stake  might  naturally  and  properly  subject 
me  to  suspicion,"  said  Medwyn,  "  beside  that  I  cannot 
with  sincerity,  adopt  your  idea,  though  I  know  it  arises 
from  the  purest  and  noblest  motives.  Sir  Frederick  Lans- 
dale  will  never  take  advantage,  as  he  would  say,  of  the 
generous  enthusiasm  of  youth.  He  would  remind  you  of 
the  interests  of  later  years,  and  convince  you  that  his  spirit 
is  as  noble  as  your  own.  With  regard  to  your  design  of 
accompanying  me  to  our  native  land,  it  would  give  me  the 
highest  gratification  to  bear  you  company;  but  I  cannot, 
even  for  that  happiness,  longer  delay  my  return.  I  should 
not  now  be  here,  but  for  my  solicitude  for  you.  This  very 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT.  131 

evening  I  must  be  on  my  way,  but  you  will  soon  follow 
me,  and  we  shall  then  meet  again." 

With  an  affectionate  adieu  the  friends  parted,  and  Med- 
wyn  hastened  back  to  his  hotel,  to  make  the  preparations 
necessary  for  his  immediate  departure  from  the  metropolis. 

What  pen  could  portray  the  emotions  that  agitated  the 
breast  of  our  young  traveller,  as  the  vessel  in  which  he 
embarked  rode  over  the  foaming  billows,  and  neared  the 
white  cliffs  of  his  native  shore!  A  thousand  delightful 
images  crowded  on  his  mind;  but  one,  fairer,  lovelier  than 
the  rest,  beamed  brightly  on  his  vision,  as  does  the  beacon 
on  the  gaze  of  the  tempest-tossed  mariner.  The  short  dis- 
tance, that  separated  him  from  all  his  heart  held  dear,  seemed 
almost  interminable.  In  vain  did  he  endeavour  to  repress 
his  impatience  by  the  supposition  that  he  would  be  received 
with  indifference— that  the  heart,  which  once  beat  so  fondly 
for  him,  was  now  estranged  by  mistrust,  and  that  the  sweet 
smile  which  should  have  rewarded  his  constancy  might  be 
chilled  to  coldness.  An  hour — nay,  a  moment,  he  knew 
would  be  sufficient  to  dissipate  all  suspicions,  and  one  con- 
fiding glance  of  those  blue  eyes  would  reward  him  for  all 
the  pain  he  had  felt  during  his  absence.  How  wearisome  to 
his  ear  was  the  measured  splash  of  the  oars,  when,  after  leav- 
ing the  ship,  he  watched  the  motion  of  the  barge  that  was 
tardily  bearing  him  to  the  Isle  of  Wight.  The  wind, — the 
tide,— all  was  favourable,  and  yet  the  distance  seemed 
endless.  At  length  the  blest  moment  arrived.  The  barge 
neared  the  shore,' — he  sprang  on  the  beach,  and  in  half  an 
hour  was  in  sight  of  the  casket  which  contained  his  priceless 
gem, — the  home  of  his  loved  Ellen. 

His  heart  beat  almost  audibly  as  he  ascended  the  well 
known  steps,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  door.  The  ceremony 
of  summoning  an  attendant  was  forgotten, — the  lock  yielded 


132  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

to  his  familiar  touch,  and  he  crossed  the  threshold.  Another 
moment,  and  he  was  near  the  apartment  where  his  happiest 
hours  had  been  spent, — where  his  pure  and  ardent  vows 
had  first  been  received,  and  where  the  tell-tale  blush,  the 
averted  glance,  and  the  gentle  sigh,  had  told  him  more 
eloquently  than  words  could  have  done,  that  he  had  not 
breathed  those  vows  in  vain.  He  paused,  for  the  idea  now 
arose  in  his  mind  of  the  agitation  his  unexpected  appearance 
might  cause,  and  he  gently  approached  the  half  open  door. 
How  many  well  remembered  objects  there  met  his  view! 
each  one,  on  which  his  eye  rested,  recalled  some  bright 
moment  of  happiness. — But  it  was  silent, — the  room  was 
untenanted,  and  he  entered. 

He  threw  himself  for  an  instant  on  the  sofa  to  recover 
from  the  effect  of  the  emotion  which  oppressed  his  heart 
almost  to  bursting,  when  a  step  was  heard  on  the  stairway; 
he  sprang  from  his  seat,  and  approached  the  door, — but  the 
step  was  not  the  one  of  sylph-like  lightness,  which  had  so 
often  sounded  on  his  ear  like  the  faint  echo  of  distant  music; 
— its  tread  was  heavy  and  assured,  and  a  stranger  appeared. 

Had  Medwyn  been  less  intensely  occupied  with  his  own . 
emotions,  he  could  not  have  avoided  a  feeling  of  perplexity 
at  the  broad  look  of  unfeigned  astonishment,  with  which 
the  stranger  regarded  him.  But  his  thoughts  were  far 
otherwise  engaged,  and  with  the  air  of  one  who  finds  him- 
self at  home,  he  motioned  the  supposed  visitor  to  a  seat, 
and  rang  the  bell. 

The  look  of  astonishment,  with  which  the  stranger  had 
at  first  regarded  him,  was  now  changed  to  one  of  dismay, 
and  as  Medwyn,  almost  unconscious  of  his  presence,  impa- 
tiently awaited  the  answer  to  his  summons,  his  eye  was 
arrested  by  that  of  the  stranger,  which  was  fixed  upon  him 
with  a  stare  of  surprise,  mingled  with  terror,  and  which 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT.  133 

could  not  fail  to  attract  his  notice.  He  now  remarked  for 
the  first  time,  that  the  stranger,  a  respectable  middle  aged 
man,  was  without  his  hat,  and  apparently  a  guest.  He 
might,  perhaps,  have  been  surprised  at  seeing  one,  entirely 
unknown  to  him,  act  with  the  familiarity  of  an  inmate  of 
the  house,  and  Medwyn  instantly  banished  the  feeling  of 
anger  that  was  rising  in  his  breast  and  on  his  brow,  at  being 
thus  so  impertinently  scanned. 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  he  said,  with  his  usual  courtesy,  "  I 
thought  at  first  that  you  were  a  visitor  here.  I  now  perceive 
that  you  are  a  guest.  Be  seated,  and  I  will  ring  for  an- 
attendant,"  and  he  again  rang  the  bell. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  now  to  misunderstand  the 
expression  of  mingled  astonishment  and  dismay  that  again 
spread  itself  over  the  quiet  features  of  the  stranger.  Med- 
wyn, in  spite  of  himself,  experienced  a  feeling  of  indignation 
at  his  extraordinary  manner,  as  well  as  impatience  at  the 
neglect  of  his  summons,  which  at  last  found  vent  in  words. 

"  Strange  negligence!"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  hastily 
paced  the  room,  "  but  perhaps  Sir  Frederick  has  not  returned 
from  his  morning  ride, — you  seem  rather  surprised,"  he 
said  to  the  stranger,  "  to  see  me  apparently  so  familiar  an 
inmate  here,  but  I  have  this  moment  returned  from  several 
months  sojourn  on  the  continent,  and  my  anxiety  to  see  Sir 
Frederick  Lansdale  renders  me  thus  impatient." 

The  wonder  and  terror,  that  had  marked  the  stranger's 
features,  at  once  vanished,  and  their  usually  placid  expression 
was  restored.  He  heaved  a  sigh,  and  his  mind  seemed 
relieved  from  some  vague  apprehension  as  he  answered, 

"  I  felt,  indeed,  not  a  little  troubled  at  your  manner,  before 
I  understood  the  circumstances  you  have  just  explained.  I 
began  to  think  that  madness, — nay,  do  not  be  angry,"  he 
continued  mildly,  "before  I  mention  the  causes  of  my  sus- 


154  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

pit-ion.  Events  may  have  occurred  during;  your  absence, 
of  which  you  are  as  yet,  unapprised.  The  summons  to 
which  you  so  impatiently  awaited  an  answer,  was  not 
noticed,  simply  because  the  home  is  not  now  furnished  with 
attendants.  It  is  no  longer  the  house  of  Sir  Frederick 
Lansdale: — it  has  been  now  nearly  a  month  since  he  em- 
barked with  his  daughter  for  the  western  world." 

The  expression  of  astonishment,  which  had  at  first  marked 
the  brow  of  the  stranger,  was  now  transferred  to  that  of 
Medvvyn.  He  looked  at  the  speaker,  as  if  doubting  the 
evidence  of  his  senses. 

"It  pleased  his  majesty,"  continued  the  stranger,  "to 
bestow  on  him  large  transatlantic  possessions,  which,  in 
process  of  time,  if  he  fulfils  his  determination  of  passing 
the  rest  of  his  life  there,  will  make  him  even  a  wealtheir 
man  than  he  was  while  in  his  own  country.  His  design 
was  to  have  delayed  his  departure  some  months  longer,  but 
a  sea  voyage  was  recommended  for  his  daughter's  declining 
health,  and  this  was  his  chief  inducement  for  departing  so 
abruptly.  His  possessions  here  are  in  the  hands  of  agents, 
of  whom  I  am  one,  awaiting  the  claim  of  the  rightful  heir, 
who  is  now  on  the  continent." 

The  doubt  with  which  Medvvyn  at  first  felt  disposed  to 
regard  the  communication  of  the  stranger,  was  banished  by 
this  simple  explanation.  It  was  a  tale  so  "  round  and  un- 
varnished" that  it  was  impossible  to  discredit  it,  and  the 
open  honest  countenance  of  the  speaker  gave  the  impress 
of  truth  to  his  words,  each  one  of  which  struck  like  a  dag- 
ger to  the  young  and  high  throbbing  heart  he  was  uncon- 
sciously wounding.  For  an  instant,  Medwyn  stood  speech- 
less,— bewildered; — a  conviction  of  the  truth  then  flashed 
on  his  mind, — his  brain  reeled,  and  he  fell  almost  without 


A  DISAPPOINTMENT.  135 

reason  as  without  sense  on  the  sofa  from  which  he  had 
arisen. 

The  stranger  hastily  approached  him,  and  for  a  moment, 
his  fears  lest  a  madman  should  have  found  his  way  into  the 
house  were  renewed.  He  was  too  humane,  however,  to 
follow  the  dictates  of  his  inclination,  and  make  his  escape. 
He  threw  open  the  window,  and  the  fresh  breeze  soon 
restored  the  scattered  senses  of  his  visitor.  He  rose,  and 
unable  longer  to  bear  the  influence  of  a  scene  which  over- 
powered him,  uttered  a  few  incoherent  words  of  adieu,  and 
instantly  quitted  this  once  loved  spot. 


136  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 


THE  CHIEFTAIN. 

11  Yet  deem  not  goodness  on  the  savage  stock 
Of  Outalissi's  heart  disdain'd  to  grow." 

tr-     GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 

"  I  sit  in  my  tears  in  the  cave — 
Nor  do  I  sit  alone — the  dark  chief  of  Cuthel  is  there." 

OSSUN. 

IT  was  in  the  early  part  of  the  month  of  June, — that  lovely 
season,  when  all  nature,  arousing  from  the  benumbing  in- 
fluence of  winter,  is  bursting  forth  in  fresh  luxuriance  and 
beauty,  that  two  travellers  were  seen  wending  their  way 
over  the  wild  and  unfrequented  road  that  led  toward  the 
Allegheny  mountains.  They  were  both  well  mounted,  and 
the  gallant  steeds  seemed  to  partake  of  the  spirit  of  enter- 
prise which  evidently  characterized  their  riders;  for  the 
proudly  arching  neck  and  glancing  eye,  showed  them  still 
unwearied  by  the  exertion  of  many  previous  days  travel. 
The  horsemen  appeared  intently  engaged  in  looking  at  the 
various  objects  of  interest  and  curiosity  that  attracted  their 
observation,  and  occasionally  dismounted,  as  some  wild 
flower,  more  beautiful  than  the  rest  of  those  which  had 
been  so  profusely  scattered  in  this  garden  of  nature,  or 
some  fossil,  hitherto,  perhaps,  unknown,  invited  their  ex- 
amination. The  route  itself,  to  those  unaccustomed  to  its 
wild  romantic  loveliness,  was  full  of  interest,  and  the  moss- 
covered  rocks,  crowned  with  arbor  vitae,  and  that  splendid 


THE  CHIEFTAIN.  137 

species  of  the  Kalmia,  known  in  this  region  by  the  name  of 
the  mountain  laurel, — the  gigantic  sons  of  the  forest  some- 
times enclasped  in  the  twining  folds  of  a  huge  vine,  while 
the  graceful  tendrils  formed  a  canopy  over  some  humbler 
trees  near  their  majestic  supporters, — or  descendiug  still 
lower,  in  festoons  of  more  fantastic  drapery,  swept  the  pure 
current  of  a  bright  stream  that  was  leaping  on  in  joyous 
freedom  through  the  lovely  wilderness; — the  deep  blue  of 
the  cloudless  arch  reflected  from  the  bosom  of  the  waters, 
where  their  depth  stilled  the  dashing  current, — all  seemed 
to  strike  the  travellers  with  the  force  and  the  charms  of 
novelty. 

"  There  is  something  of  marvellous  interest  in  this  pri- 
meval forest,"  said  one  of  these  wayfarers  to  his  com- 
panion, who  was,  apparently,  some  years  younger  than 
himself;  "yet  methinks  it  would  lose  none  of  its  attraction 
by  a  road  more  distinctly  traced.  I  have  rather  more  expe- 
rience in  these  wild  regions  than  yourself,  and  yet  I  begin 
to  doubt,  whether  we  may  not  have  mistaken  the  directions 
of  our  good  old  friend  and  guide,  who  promised  to  join  us 
again,  in  half  an  hour.  The  time  has  already  passed,"  he 
continued,  looking  at  his  watch,  "and  yet  he  returns  not. 
It  would,  perhaps,  be  as  well  to  repose  a  few  moments 
beneath  the  leafy  canopy  of  this  superb  wild  vine,  and  await 
his  return." 

To  this  proposition  his  companion  made  no  objection, 
and  they  descended,  and  easily  found  a  shelter  from  the 
increasing  warmth  of  the  summer  sun,  amid  the  shades  of 
the  forest. 

"  Those  who  are  accustomed  to  more  luxurious  indul- 
gence,"  said   the    younger   traveller,   after  quenching   his 
thirst  in  the  pure  stream,  "can  hardly  imagine  the  pleasure, 
even  of  a  draught  of  cool  water  in  the  wilderness;  though 
10 


138  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

we  have  here  rare  opportunities  of  feasting  more  senses 
than  one,"  he  added,  gathering  some  of  the  blossoms  of  the 
vine  and  of  the  azalea  that  bloomed  in  rich  luxuriance 
beneath  his  hand. 

"  You  are  disposed  to  be  philosophical,  this  morning," 
said  his  companion,  with  a  smile.  "  It  would  be  rather 
difficult  to  persuade  the  society  with  which  you  have  been 
connected  within  the  last  year,  lhat  you  can  content  your- 
self with  such  humble  pleasures.  What  would  the  court 
circle  of  Versailles,  for  instance,  think  of  your  taste,  if  they 
were  to  hear  you  expatiating  on  the  charms  of  a  wilderness 
in  the  western  hemisphere?" 

"They  would  probably  say,  'quand  on  n'a  pas  ce  que 
Fan  aimc,  ilfaut  aimer  ce  que  Von  «,'  "  replied  Medwyn, — 
for,  as  may  have  perhaps,  been  surmised,  he  was  our  young 
traveller, — "though  I  believe  I  should  find  little  difficulty  in 
transferring  my  affections  from  scenes  so  heartless  as  those 
to  which  you  allude,  to  a  home  even  in  this  lonely  desert, 
if  it  boasted  all  the  charms  that  attach  to  that  sweet  name, 
though  a  more  civilized  place  may  be  found,  possessing 
many  of  its  wild  beauties,  if  I  should  determine  on  making 
this  country  my  permanent  abode." 

"  The  example  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  will  sustain  us  in 
our  choice,"  said  the  elder  traveller,  "and  the  circumstance 
of  other  friends  having  selected  the  grants  of  land  bestowed 
by  his  majesty,  in  various  parts  of  this  region  of  country, 
offers  us  an  additional  inducement  to  cast  our  lot  somewhere 
among  them.  I  understand,  that  Sir  Frederick  Lansdale, 
who  has  recently  arrived,  has  determined  to  make  a  selection 
hardly  more  than  a  hundred  miles  from  the  sea-coast,  and 
yet  in  view,  though  distant,  of  those  blue  and  beautiful 
mountains  which  surround  us.  He  has,  however,  gone  a 
few  days  farther  westward  than  we  now  are,  to  take  a  satis- 


THE  CHIEFTAIN.  139 

factory  view  of  the  whole  ground.  Strange  to  tell,  his 
lovely  daughter  insisted  on  accompanying  him,  notwith- 
standing the  fatigues  of  the  route.  Her  health,  which  he 
fondly  urged  as  a  reason  why  she  should  remain  in  a  more 
civilized  part  of  the  country,  she  found  means  to  persuade 
him  would  be  greatly  ameliorated  by  the  bracing  air  of  the 
mountains,  and  accustomed  as  he  is  to  indulge  her  in  every 
wish,  and  perhaps  desirous  at  the  same  time  to  gratify  his 
paternal  feelings,  he  permitted  her  to  accompany  him.  We 
shall  probably  see  them  in  a  few  days." 

Medwyn  made  no  reply,  for  he  was  too  ingenuous  to 
speak  of  the  sole  object  of  his  visit  as  if  it  were  merely 
incidental,  and  his  feelings  did  not  permit  him  to  make  a 
theme,  to  him  so  sacred,  the  subject  of  ordinary  conver- 
sation. The  words  of  the  traveller  awoke  a  train  of  painful 
thought  in  his  mind,  for  he  heard  the  delicate  state  of  his 
Ellen's  health  now  for  the  second  time  alluded  to.  And 
why  had  the  rose  forsaken  that  lovely  cheek,  and  why  was 
the  vermeil  lip  no  longer  wreathed  in  sunny  smiles? — She 
believed*  alas!  with  too  much  cause  for  her  suspicion,  that 
she  had  been  neglected  and  forsaken; — that  the  heart,  in 
which  she  had  fondly  tiusted,  had  been  estranged  by  the 
world's  honours  and  vanities,  and  perhaps  she  was  sustained, 
— but  the  thought  was  too  painful  for  endurance, — only  by 
the  reflection  that  he  was  unworthy  the  deep  and  pure 
affection  she  had  once  confessed  she  felt  for  him.  How 
ardently  he  longed  to  dissipate  this  fatal  illusion,  which  in 
an  hi  ur,  nay,  a  moment,  he  was  persuaded  would  vanish! 
but  in  the  mean  time,  the  fell  destroyer  might  have  marked 
her  for  his  own,  and  she  might  be  already  preparing  to  join 
the  loved  group,  of  which  she  was  the  last  survivor,  in  that 
heavenly  dwelling-place,  where  her  young  heart  would  no 
longer  be  the  prey  oi  withered  hopes  and  blighted  affections. 


140  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

The  thought  fell  in  all  its  chilling  darkness  on  his  mind, 
and  he  arose  impatiently  from  his  resting  place. 

"It  is  in  vain,  I  believe,"  he  said  to  his  companion,  "to 
wait  longer  for  our  old  guide.  The  road  is  tolerably  plain, 
and  I  think,  from  the  directions  he  gave  us,  that  we  run  no 
risk  in  continuing  our  route."  And  he  was  preparing  to 
remount  his  horse. 

His  companion  shook  his  head.  "  This  is  not  the  first 
time  that  I  have  been  among  these  wilds,"~he  said.  "If 
you  will  take  my  advice,  you  will  wait  at  least  half  an  hour 
longer." 

"  There  will  be  some  danger  in  that  experiment,"  replied 
Medwyn,  "  for  even  if  our  guide  should  return  in  that  space 
of  time,  I  perceive,  above  the  tops  of  these  lofty  trees,  a 
brilliant  sheet  of  white,  mingled  with  the  deep  azure  we 
were  just  now  contemplating  with  such  admiration,  and  my 
past  observation  warns  me  that  there  is  something  darker 
and  more  threatening  behind  it.  There  is  our  monitor!"  he 
continued,  as  the  faint  sound  of  a  peal  of  distant  thunder 
fell  on  his  ear.  "  We  shall  probably  have  only  a  drenching 
for  our  pains,  if  we  stay  here  longer." 

His  companion  rose  from  his  recumbent  posture,  and 
advanced  a  few  paces  into  the  route  they  had  quitted.  He 
was  evidently  uncertain  and  perplexed,  and  hesitated,  as  if 
at  a  loss  what  course  to  take. 

"  I  am  apprehensive,"  he  said,  "  that  we  must  have  made 
some  mistake  in  the  direction  of  our  guide,  who  has  hitherto 
been  so  faithful,  that  I  cannot  mistrust  him.  Our  safest 
course  will  be  for  me  to  return  to  the  point  from  which  we 
set  out  half  an  hour  ago,  where  I  can  be  assured  of  the  pro- 
per direction.  It  is  needless  for  you  to  accompany  me;  I 
will  return  immediately." 

He  threw  himself  into  the  saddle  without  awaiting  Med- 


THE  CHIEFTAIN.  141 

wyn's  reply,  and  putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  was  instantly 
out  of  sight. 

The  reflections  in  which  Medwyn  had  a  moment  before 
been  indulging,  did  not  dispose  him  to  exercise  an  extra- 
ordinary degree  of  patience,  and  he  felt  rather  vexed  at  the 
sudden  departure  of  his  companion.  The  continued  mutter- 
ing of  the  distant  thunder,  too,  gave  him  warning  of  an 
approaching  storm,  and  he  determined  to  retrace  his  way, 
and  secure  a  shelter  in  the  house  they  had  left  half  an  hour 
before.  He  rode  on,  and,  as  he  believed,  in  the  road  by 
which  they  had  reached  the  spot  he  had  just  quitted;  but  he 
soon  found  himself  perplexed  by  perceiving  that  it  led  in  a 
different  direction.  He  turned,  and  endeavoured  to  regain 
the  route  he  had  lost,  but  his  perplexity  increased,  and  the 
obscurity  of  the  path-way  increased  with  it.  He  could  no 
longer  doubt  that  he  was  lost  in  the  intricate  mazes  of  the 
forest,  and  his  embarrassment  was  heightened  by  the  aspect 
of  the  approaching  storm,  which  was  announced  by  fitful 
gusts  which  soughed  through  the  waving  branches  of  the 
trees  above  and  around  him. 

Still,  however,  he  pursued  his  uncertain  way,  when 
suddenly  his  horse  sprang  aside,  as  if  startled  by  some 
unexpected  obstacle.  Medwyn  leaned  forward  to  see  what 
had  excited  his  alarm,  and  observed  a  silken  scarf  of  bril- 
liant red  fluttering  in  the  wind,  its  hue  rendered  yet  more 
conspicuous  from  the  dark  outline  of  the  tree,  behind  which 
the  wearer  was  partially  concealed,  and  the  masses  of  green 
above,  that  gave  it  additional  relief.  With  some  difficulty 
he  urged  his  unwilling  steed  forward,  and  another  bound 
gave  him  a  full  view  of  a  slight  female  form,  retreating  as  if 
with  the  hope  of  being  still  concealed  by  the  trunk  of  the 
gigantic  oak,  behind  which  she  had  taken  refuge.  Impelled 
by  his  wish  to  take  a  nearer  view  of  the  stranger,  Medwyn 


142  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTOR^. 

threw  himself  from  the  saddle,  and   with   the  rein  on  his 
arm  gently  approached  the  place  where  she  stood. 

Had  the  form  possessed  less  attraction,  it  could  not  have 
failed  to  awaken  some  interest  in  so  wild  and  secluded  a 
spot;  but  the  one,  which  now  presented  itself  to  his  won- 
dering eye,  would,  at  any  time,  and  in  any  other  place,  have 
engaged  his  full  attention.  The  figure  was  slight,  hut  beau- 
tifully proportioned,  and  the  erect  stature,  and  finely  turned 
neck  might  have  graced  a  queen.  The  taper  hands,  and 
full  arms,  which  even  their  singular  colour  could  not  de- 
prive of  their  beauty,  were  bare,  and  an  exquisitely  sym- 
metrical foot  and  ankle  were  displayed  to  the  greatest  advan- 
tage by  delicate  moccasins,  curiously  inwrought  in  brilliant 
colours  with  the  quills  of  the  porcupine.  Her  ebony  hair 
fell  loose  on  her  shoulders,  which  were  partially  concealed 
by  the  scarf  that  had  first  betrayed  her  place  of  concealment, 
and  gave  an  air  of  yet  more  singular  wildness  to  the  dress, 
which,  partly  European,  and  still  characterized  by  the  fan- 
tastic taste  of  the  children  of  the  forest,  well  became  the 
elastic  form  before  him.  She  raised  her  dark  and  brilliant 
eyes  as  Medwyn  approached  and  accosted  her,  and  bestowed 
on  him  a  glance,  such  as  the  gazeHe,  when  about  to  fly  to 
the  deep  recesses  of  the  forest,  might  have  thrown  on  her 
pursuer.  Reassured,  however,  by  the  gentleness  of  his 
address,  her  purpose  was  apparently  changed,  and  to  his 
surprise,  Medwyn  found  his  inquiries  answered  in  his  own 
language, — imperfectly  it  is  true,  but  still  with  sufficient 
accuracy  to  be  well  understood.  With  that  pride,  however, 
which  finds  a  place  even  in  the  hearts  of  these  children  of 
nature,  she  seemed  unwilling  to  converse  in  a  foreign  tongue, 
and  he  was  able  to  understand  her  more  by  the  gestures 
with  which  she  explained  her  meaning,  than  by  the  few 
words  she  spoke. 


THE  CHIEFTAIN.  143 

.  "  The  storm  is  near,"  said  the  maiden,  as  a  heavy  blast 
swept  through  the  forest,  and  the  forked  lightning  quivered 
around  them;  "  follow  me  and  I  will  find  you  shelter." 

The  deep  roar  of  the  thunder  drowned  the  words  she 
apparently  added,  but  following  the  motion  of  her  hand,  he 
perceived,  near  the  spot  where  she  stood,  a  canopy  formed 
by  the  interlacing  branches  of  the  tiees,  so  thick  as  to  be 
almost  impenetrable  to  the  threatened  rain.  She  motioned 
him  to  advance,  and  to  secure  his  horse  beneath  its  covert. 
Medwyn  in  silence  followed  her  direction,  and  she  seemed 
impatiently  awaiting  his  movements,  as,  with  the  humanity 
and  foresight  of  a  practised  horseman,  he  removed  the  sad- 
dle. She  again  beckoned  him  onward,  and  he  followed  her 
as  she  ascended  a  slight  acclivity.  For  a  moment  she 
paused,  and  stooped  as  if  to  find  something  concealed  in  a 
crevice  of  a  mossy  rock  near  them.  A  flint  and  steel  in- 
stantly ignited  two  torches  which  she  had  taken  from  their 
place  of  security,  and  presenting  one  to  Medwyn,  while  she 
held  the  other,  with  some  difficulty  he  followed  her  through 
an  opem'ng  in  the  rock.  The  passage  through  which  they 
proceeded  gradually  widened,  and  Medwyn  paused  as  he 
found  that  he  was  entering  a  subterranean  grotto.  For  the 
first  time,  the  idea  flashed  on  his  mind,  that  he  was  about  to 
encounter  some  unseen  dangers.  True  it  was,  that  the 
native  sons  of  the  forest  had,  at  this  epoch,  retreated  to  a 
land  far  distant  from  the  region  in  which  he  now  found 
himself;  but  some  individuals  remained,  and  though  they 
had  become  reconciled  to  the  manners  and  customs  of  their 
European  successors,  the  nations  had  never,  "  like  kindred 
drops  been  melted  into  one,"  and  there  might  yet  be  a 
feeling  of  hostility  on  their  part,  especially  toward  a  stranger. 
They  were  often  stigmatized  with  treachery  as  well  as  cru- 
elty, and  was  it  not  possible  that  he  might  be  now  entering 


144  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

a  tomb  that  was  to  shut  the  light  of  day,  which  was  fast 
vanishing  in  the  increasing  gloom  behind  him,  from  his 
view  for  ever?  The  thought  arrested  his  steps,  and  he 
paused.  His  conductress  looked  toward  him,  and  the  air 
of  surprise  and  of  good  faith,  which  marked  the  expression 
of  her  features,  reassured  him. 

"  Enter,"  she  said,  "  and  fear  not; — the  storm  cannot 
beat  here,  and  here  even  the  voice  of  the  thunder  is  lost?" 

Medwyn  advanced,  and  to  his  astonishment  found,  that 
they  were  now  emerging  from  a  small  apartment  that  ap- 
peared only  an  ante-chamber,  to  a  long  suite  of  rooms,  lead- 
ing in  various  directions,  whose  almost  interminable  height 
and  magnificent  size  were  undistinguishable  by  the  imper- 
fect lights  carried  by  his  conductress  and  himself.  The 
blaze  of  the  torches  threw  their  fitful  beams  upon  the  walls, 
which  sparkled  as  if  tapestried  with  cloth  of  gold  inwrought 
with  myriads  of  costly  gems,  while  lustres  that  depended 
from  the  ceiling  glowed  with  the  prismatic  brilliancy  of 
diamonds.  The  superb  columns, — the  gleaming  white  of 
groups  of  colossal  statuary, — of  vases  of  alabaster, — of 
candelabras, — of  girandoles, — of  curtains  sweeping  with 
heavy  and  graceful  folds, — even  the  outlines  of  a  throne, — 
all  flitted  in  shadowy  forms  before  him,  but  more  like  the 
unearthly  phantoms  of  departed  grandeur  than  the  real  ac- 
companiments of  a  kingly  palace,  and  seemed  sadly  mingled 
with  funereal  monuments,  which  arose  in  the  vast  space, 
with  ghost-like  whiteness,  as  the  distant  light  fell  on  them, 
and  whose  dark  shadows  seemed  to  reproach  them  with 
permitting  even  that  faint  smile  to  illumine  their  obscurity. 

As  they  continued  to  advance,  Medwyn  perceived  lights 
glimmering  in  the  distance.  His  first  suspicions  began  to 
return,  and  arose  with  renewed  force,  when  he  perceived 
that  his  companion  and  himself  were  not  the  only  occu- 


THE  CHIEFTAIN.  145 

pants  of  this  subterranean  abode.  The  outlines  of  a  tall 
majestic  form  were  gradually  revealed  to  their  view,  and 
Medwyn  now  distinctly  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  seated  on 
one  of  the  stalagmites  which  his  imagination  had  moulded 
into  such  a  variety  of  images.  A  torch  was  burning  on 
either  side  of  him,  and  threw  a  ruddy  glare  on  his  swarthy 
features,  which,  though  slightly  marked  by  the  hand  of  time, 
yet  bore  a  grave  and  noble  expression;  and  the  broad 
sinewy  chest,  and  erect  port, — the  well  turned  and  athletic 
limbs, — and  above  all  the  upward  glance  of  the  eagle  eye, 
and  the  proudly  elevated  head,  displayed  at  once  a  monarch 
of  the  forest. 

Never  had  Medwyn  approached  the  presence  of  royalty 
with  the  feeling  of  mingled  reverence  and  awe,  which  now 
arose  in  his  mind  as  he  advanced  toward  the  chieftain,  for 
such  the  superiority  of  his  air,  and  the  wampum  belt  and 
eagle  plumes  denoted  him.  It  was  not  that  any  emotion  of 
alarm  for  his  safety  mingled  itself  with  those  feelings,  but 
there  was  something  in  the  grave,  nay,  deeply  sad  expres- 
sion of  the  noble  brow, — in  that  majestic  form, — seated,  as 
it  were/  amid  the  tombs  of  his  exiled  race, — that  accorded 
well  with  the  grandeur  and  sublimity  of  the  scene  around 
him,  and  awakened  a  feeling  of  reverence  which  the  courtly 
splendour  of  a  monarch,  surrounded  by  all  the  prestige  of 
royalty,  would  in  vain  have  sought  to  arrogate  to  itself.- 

He  remained  motionless  as  a  statue,  while  Medwyn  and 
his  conductress  advanced  toward  him,  until  the  maiden 
reached  the  spot  where  he  sat,  and  uttered  a  few  words  in 
a  low  voice.  They  were  apparently  explanatory,  for  he 
slightly  moved  his  head,  as  if  satisfied  with  her  communi- 
cation, and  motioned  to  Medwyn  to  be  seated  near  him. 

Medwyn  was  again  surprised  to  find  himself  addressed 
in  his  own  language;  and  though  the  expressions  of  the 


146  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

chieftain,  as  he  occasionally  uttered  them,  were  mingled 
with  words  of  his  native  tongue,  he  found  no  difficulty  in 
comprehending  them,  and  following  the  train  of  thought 
that  was  passing  through  his  mind. 

"  Thou  hast  then  sought  a  refuge  from  the  storm  beneath 
the  wing  of  the  old  Eagle?"  he  said.  "  It  is  well; — thou 
art  welcome." 

Medwyn  respectfully  acknowledged  the  courtesy,  and 
looked  with  increasing  admiration  at  the  magnificence  and 
sublimity  of  the  scene  around  him,  which  the  sudden  tran- 
sition from  the  light  of  day  had  before  rendered  undistin- 
guishable. 

'rt  Thou  hast  no  cause  for  fear,"  continued  the  chieftain. 
"Logan  hath  been  branded  by  his  tribe  as  the  friend  of 
thy  race.  They  have  ere  now  sought  shelter  at  my  own 
door,  which  is  far  hence.  When  faint,  and  weary,  they 
have  found  strength;  when  oppressed,  they  have  found  suc- 
cour at  my  hand.  They  rewarded  me  evil; — the  flame  and 
the  sword  devoured  all  that  were  mine, — there  runs  not  one 
drop  of  my  blood  in  the  veins  of  any  living  creature." 

The  chieftain  paused,  and  his  features  were  marked  by 
the  strong  emotion  that  heaved  his  broad  chest.  A  tear 
gathered  in  his  eye,  and  fell  on  his  swarthy  cheek.  He 
dashed  it  away,  as  if  ashamed  of  betraying  a  weakness 
almost  unknown  to  "  the  stoic  of  the  woods, "and  resumed, — 
as  if  soliloquizing. 

*'  This  is  not  my  dwelling  place,  though  I  have  sought 
it  in  my  return  to  my  desolate  home,  rather  than  owe  obli- 
gation to  those  who  have  wronged  me.  These  echoing 
vaults  are  dear  to  my  soul — they  awake  the  voice  of  ye:,rs 
that  are  gone, — I  pour  forth  my  song  of  grief,  arnd  none  may 
answer  but  the  echo.  The  ashes  of  my  lone  hearth  have 
been  quenched  in  the  blood  of  all  I  loved: — Logan  must  fall 


THE  CHIEFTAIN.  147 

like  the  leafless  oak,  that  hath  been  blasted  by  the  light- 
ning, and  that  the  wind  hath  felled  where  it  stood. — None 
will  mourn  for  him, — he  is  alone." 

Again,  the  tear  gathered  in  the  dark  eye  of  the  chieftain, 
and  again  he  dashed  it  off.  His  glance  kindled,  and  astern 
and  almost  ferocious  expression  succeeded  that  of  deep  sad- 
ness, which  had  marked  his  brow. 

"  It  is  not  for  the  eye  of  the  eagle  to  weep,"  he  said. 
"  He  that  can  gaze  on  the  sun,  may  look  unmoved  on  blood. 
And  I  too,  like  the  eagle,  have  marked  the  blood  of  the  slain, 
and  rejoiced  in  my  prey.  Yes!  I  have  been  avenged! — But 
the  tree  of  peace  hath  been  planted  over  the  bones  of  my 
kindred,  and  thus  my  enmity  shall  die!" 

His  voice  fell,  as  he  spoke,  and  as  he  uttered  the  last 
words,  he  threw  from  his  hand  a  tomahawk,  which  in  the  ex- 
citement of  the  moment  he  had  raised  from  his  side  where 
it  rested.  The  murderous  steel  struck  with  force  against  a 
stalactite  that  resembled  the  drapery  of  a  broad  curtain,  and 
instantly  awoke  a  thousand  echoes  amid  the  vaulted  apart- 
ments, which  reverberated  with  peals  of  thundering  sound 
throughout  the  mighty  void.  The  echo  apparently  had  its 
influence  on  other  presiding  spirits,  for  Medwyn  now  be- 
held, by  the  dim  light,  another  figure  advancing  toward 
them.  As  he  approached  the  glare  of  the  torches,  his  face 
and  form  were  yet  more  plainly  given  to  view,  and  those 
of  the  young  warrior  who  approached  might  have  offered 
models  for  a  Hercules.  Tall,  majestic,  and  erect  as  the 
proud  oak  of  his  native  forest,  his  step  was  light  and  free 
as  the  mountain  wind,  yet  the  gigantic  strength,  indicated 
by  his  muscular  liiiibs,  partially  exposed  to  view- by  his 
wild  and  savage  costume,  and  the  firm  expression  of  the 
dark  and  brilliant  eye,  showed  one  accustomed  to  rely  on 
the  prowess  of  his  arm,  and  that  the  agile  lightness  of  his 


148  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

step  had  never  been  tested,  unless  in  pursuit  of  a  flying 
foe. 

He  advanced  rapidly,  bending  a  look  of  dark  and  stern 
inquiry  on  Medwyn,  as  he  approached  the  place  where  he 
stood;  but  a  word  from  the  chieftain  arrested  him. 

"  It  was  I  who  awoke  the  echoes,  Allanawissca,"  he 
said:  "  the  stranger  means  no  evil, — he  is  sheltered  from 
the  storm  beneath  the  eagle's  wing." 

This  explanation  seemed  satisfactory  to  the  young  war- 
rior, for  he  seated  himself  near,  and  drew  together  the  dying 
embers  of  a  small  fire,  which  had  been  kindled  on  the  earth, 
without  manifesting  farther  displeasure  at  the  presence  of 
one,  who,  at  first,  he  had  evidently  regarded  as  an  intruder. 

"  The  stranger  is  wearied,"  continued  the  chieftain. 
"  It  is  not  the  first  time,  that  the  children  of  his  race  have 
sought  hospitality  from  my  hand.  Let  Nimawha  offer  him 
food." 

The  Indian  maiden,  who  had  retreated  into  the  shadowy 
obscurity,  advanced,  and  brought  from  a  recess,  vvhicli  had 
served  her  purpose,  the  materials  of  a  sylvan  feast.  Dried 
venison,  wild  honey,  and  a  rude  preparation  of  maize, 
formed  its  whole  variety.  To  these,  which  she  spread 
before  them,  she  added  a  small  flask,  containing,  apparently, 
some  spirituous  liquor.  The  eye  of  the  chieftain  followed 
her  movements,  and  a  glance  of  indignation  was  kindled  as 
it  rested  on  the  flask.  He  stretched  forth  his  hand  and  seized 
it,  while  he  bestowed  a  reproachful  look  on  the  maiden. 

"  And  hath  Nimawha  then  forgotten  my  charge,"  he 
said,  "  and  is  the  fire-king  again  brought  before  my  eyes? 
He  that  hath  deprived  our  race  of  our  senses, — our  reason, 
— our  country? — Let  it  not  be  said  that  Logan,  too,  hath 
been  his  victim." 

As  he  spoke,  he  poured  the  whole  contents  of  the  flask 


THE  CHIEFTAIN.  149 

on  the  embers,  which  had  been  rekindled  by  the  hand  and 
the  breath  of  Allanawissca.  The  luvid  flame  blazed  up 
with  meteor-like  brilliancy,  and  threw  a  momentary  glare 
around,  which  illuminated  the  arched  vault,  and  the  deep 
recesses,  disclosing  them  in  all  their  dazzling  magnificence. 

Their  slight  repast  was  silently  despatched,  and  the 
young  warrior  seemed  preparing  to  depart.  The  Indian 
maiden  glided  from  the  apartment,  and  after  a  short  absence 
returned,  and  addressed  a  few  words  to  the  chieftain; 

"The  storm  is  past,"  he  said  to  Medwyn,  "and  I  will 
yet  show  thee  farther  kindness.  Thou  hast  been  bewil- 
dered in  the  forest;  Allanawissca  will  guide  thee  on  thy 
way." 

Medwyn  unhesitatingly  accepted  the  offer.  He  again 
resumed  the  torch  with  which  he  had  been  furnished  on 
his  entrance,  and  followed  the  light  and  rapid  steps  of  his 
conductor  through  the  dark  windings  by  which  he  had  first 
passed,  until  he  found  himself  at  the  threshold  of  this  wild 
and  splendid  temple  of  nature. 

The  sun  was  again  beaming  brightly  on  the  blue  moun- 
tains, anfl  each  shrub  and  spray  shook  a  thousand  spangles 
from  their  dewy  branches,  as  he  followed  the  young  war- 
rior to  the  spot  where  he  had  left  his  horse.  With  a  ges- 
ture, which  words  could  not  have  expressed  more  perfectly, 
he  motioned  to  Medwyn  to  mount  and  follow  him.  The 
signal  was  instantly  understood,  and  with  the  firm,  rapid, 
undeviating  pace  which  distinguishes  the  Indian  warrior,  he 
led  the  way.  They  passed  for  several  miles  through  the 
mazes  of  the  forest,  until  the  smoke  of  a  chimney  appeared. 
His  conductor  pointed  to  it,  and  then  looked  fixedly  at 
Medwyn.  Perceiving  that  his  gesture  was  understood,  he 
paused  for  a  moment  to  let  the  horseman  pass,  and  then, 
plunging  into  the  depths  of  the  forest,  was  instantly  lost  to 
view. 


150  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 


PENSEES. 

"  Ere  his  leisure  pace 

Amid  the  brown  leaves  could  her  ear  alarm, 
Close  he  had  come, — and  worshipp'd  for  a  space 
Those  downcast  features,— she  her  lovely  face 
Uplift  on  one  whose  lineaments  and  frame 
Were  youth  and  manhood's  intermingled  grace." 

GERTRUDE  OP  WYOMING. 

^L  FEW  more  days  passed,  and  Medwyn  found  himself  near 
the  spot  which  had  been  indicated  as  that  where  his  wan- 
derings were  for  a  short  space  to  terminate; — where  he 
might  hope  to  behold  the  bright  reality  of  that  blest  vision 
which  was  ever  present  to  his  view. 

The  day  had  been  one  of  cloudless  brilliancy,  but  the 
sun  was  sinking  in  the  western  sky,  and  his  last  rays 
gilded  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  as  Medwyn  and  his  com- 
panion, preceded  by  their  guide,  emerged  from  the  forest, 
and  came  suddenly  on  the  banks  of  a  stream,  broad  and 
rapid,  yet  clear  and  bright  as  crystal.  Above  the  spot 
where  they  were  about  to  enter  it,  the  dark-blue  colour, 
and  the  stillness  of  the  current,  marked  its  depth;  below, 
the  rapid  and  noisy  stream  dashed  in  foaming  torrents  over 
the  rocks  that  at  intervals  interrupted  its  progress,  and  the 
sound  broke  on  the  ear  with  a  wild  but  musical  effect. 

As  they  crossed  the  river,  the  huge  parapets  of  rock 
which  bounded  it  above,  became  more  distinctly  visible, 
and  on  one  tide  resembled  some  mighty  fortification,  while 


PENSEES.  151 

on  the  other,  the  projecting  rocks,  which  corresponded  with 
cavities  visible  at  intervals  throughout  its  vast  height,  gave 
the  impression  that  some  tremendous  convulsion  of  nature 
had  separated  them,  and  thus  left  a  space  for  the  river  to 
pursue  its  onward  way.  Below,  lay  a  narrow  but  lovely 
valley,  already  bearing  some  traces  of  the  fostering  hand  of 
man  in  the  rich  and  verdant  meadows  that  sloped  to  the 
water's  edge;  and  in  a  low  but  comfortable  looking  dwell- 
ing, which  apparently  was  the  homestead  of  their  proprie- 
tor, while  stretching  off  in  the  distance,  and  as  if  seen 
through  a  vista,  appeared  the  soft  blue  outline  of  the  dis- 
tant mountains. 

This  lovely  and  romantic  valley,  now  known  by  the 
name  of  "  Clifton,"  has  lost  many  of  its  charms  from  the 
inroads  of  utilitarian  hands;  but  enough  of  its  wild  beauties 
remain  to  show  those  of  which  it  boasted  at  the  epoch 
referred  to. 

Medwyn  with  some  difficulty  breasted  the  stream,  as  he 
urged  his  horse  through  its  rapid  current.  His  guide,  how- 
ever, plunged  fearlessly  in,  and  he  unhesitatingly  followed* 
A  few  minutes  were  sufficient  to  bring  them  in  safety  to  the 
opposite  bank,  and  they  now  approached  the  dwelling  where 
he  was  certain  of  finding  his  revered  friend,  and  the  loved 
being  whose  presence  would  have  power  to  convert  this 
wilderness  into  an  Eden. 

What  were  not  his  feelings  as  he  crossed  that  threshold! 
It  was  a  relief,  and  he  breathed  more  freely  when  the  good- 
natnred  host  alone  appeared,  and  directed  him  to  a  pathway 
on  the  river's  bank,  where  he  was  informed  that  his  guests 
took  their  evening  walk. 

With  a  throbbing  heart  he  followed  its  mazy  windings, 
until  he  reached  a  bower,  formed,  by  the  fantastic  hand  of 
nature,  of  the  wild  vine,  whose  rich  blossoms  perfumed  the 


152  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

evening  air,  and  something  whispered  that  this  was  the  spot 
that  was  to  be  consecrated  by  the  renewal  of  his  vows. 

He  gently  approached,  and  looked  through  the  sweeping 
tendrils.  Ellen  was  there, — and  alone.  Her  beautiful  form 
had  lost  some  of  its  roundness,  and  the  soft  cheek  was  pale, 
— but  she  was  lovely, — oh  how  lovely!  One  hand,  as  she 
stood,  held  a  small  volume  half  opened, — in  the  other  weie 
some  wild  flowers,  on  which  her  downcast  eyes,  concealed 
by  their  long  fringes,  were  steadfastly  fixed. 

"  Pensees!"  she  murmured,  as  she  looked  more  nearly 
at  the  wild  flowers  in  her  hand,  "yes!  they  are  well  named. 
This  splendid  texture  of  purple  velvet  with  its  embroidery 
of  gold  may,  indeed,  vie  with  regal  magnificence,  and  remind 
us  that  'Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  one 
of  these.'  Well  may  they  merit  their  name,  if  they  bring 
to  mind  the  hand  that  created  them.  And  yet  earthly 
thoughts  will  sometimes  mingle  with  those  that  should  per- 
haps belong  alone  to  heaven.  How  fondly  do  these  pensees 
recall  the  remembrance  of  days  past,  which  ought  to  be 
forgotten,  and  yet  to  which  memory  must  cling,  while  life 
remains!" 

The  voice  ceased, — and  she  raised  those  blue  eyes,  suf- 
fused with  tears.  Was  it  a  vision  of  the  past  that  swam 
before  them,  or  was  it,  indeed  reality?  Yes! — she  could 
doubt  no  longer; — days, — weeks, — months  of  suffering  were 
forgotten, — suspicion  vanished  as  she  met  that  love-speaking 
glance, — the  pale  cheek  grew  paler,  and  she  sank  almost 
insensible  in  his  arms. 

"Ellen! — dearest — fairest — loveliest!"  murmured  the  gen- 
tle and  well  remembered  accents,  as  he  pressed  his  lips  on 
the  pure  cheek  and  snowy  brow,  "have  I  then,  notwith- 
standing my  apparent  sins,  of  all  which  I  am  guiltless,  been 
remembered?" 


PENStfES.  153 

"  Oh  Percy!"  she  replied,  as  a  deep  sigh  relieved  her 
full  heart,  while  the  rose  brightly  tinged  her  cheek,  and  as 
with  sweet  bashfulness  she  in  vain  endeavoured  to  disengage 
herself  from  the  supporting  arm,  "you  know  not  what  I 
have  suffered  since  we  last  met.  I  fear, — I  ought  not  to 
believe  you,  and  yet, — how  can  I  help  it?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  noble  and  ingenuous  face  as 
she  spoke,  and  they  again  sank  beneath  the  glance  they 
encountered.  The  playful  smile  that  was  wont  to  wreathe 
her  lip  once  more  rested  on  it. 

"  There, — there,"  she  whispered,  "  you  must  listen  to 
reason  now; — that  is  my  father's  step.  See!  he  is  ap- 
proaching us!" 

The  surprise  of  Sir  Frederick  Lansdale  was  equal  to  that 
of  his  daughter  at  his  sudden  and  unexpected  meeting  with 
his  young  friend.  A  few  words  of  explanation  sufficed  to 
banish  every  feeling  of  suspicion  that  might  have  found  a 
resting-place  in  his  mind,  and  their  short  walk  to  the  dwell- 
ing of  their  host  afforded  them  ample  time  to  place  their 
relations  on  their  ancient  footing.  His  generous  heart  felt 
a  pang  of  regret  when  he  heard  of  the  fate  of  Lord  Belmore, 
and  a  silent  tear  fell  in  sympathy  with  that  shed  by  his 
youthful  friend. 

"  There  is  one  part  of  your  narrative,  Percy,"  said  Sir 
Frederick,  after  listening  attentively  to  the  adventures,  of 
which  he  had  requested  a  minute  detail,  and  in  which  he 
felt,  as  may  be  presumed,  a  lively  interest,  "  that  seems  still 
involved  in  mystery,  but  on  which  I  can  throw  some  light. 
This  daring  adventurer,  de  Gourville,  for  I  am  happy  to 
learn  that  he  is  now  deprived  of  the  assumed  name  of  my 
brother's  adopted  son,  is  actually  in  this  country.  He  was 
doubtless  compelled  to  fly  from  the  pursuit  of  justice,  after 
11 


154  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

his  atrocious  attempt  upon  the  life  of  de  Vaudemont.  I 
suppose  he  imagines  himself  safe  here,  not  only  from  incar- 
ceration in  a  dungeon,  or  the  hand  of  the  executioner,  but 
even  from  the  infamous  reputation  of  an  assassin,  which 
must  follow  him  wherever  his  dark  deeds  are  known.  You 
are,  perhaps,  the  only  witness  against  him,  and  he  has  not 
much  reason  to  regard  you  with  special  favour.  It  would 
be  as  well  to  be  on  your  guard,  for  he  has  actually  been 
growling  about  in  these  wilds,  and  one  evening  alarmed  my 
daughter  by  way-laying  her  path  in  one  of  her  evening 
rambles,  and  making  a  passionate  declaration  of  love  to  her. 
I  believe  he  might  have  saved  himself  the  trouble,"  con- 
tinued Sir  Frederick,  with  an  arch  glance  at  Ellen,  which 
raised  a  blush  on  her  cheek,  "  for  she  fled  to  the  house  with 
the  speed  of  a  frightened  fawn,  and  I  could  not  persuade 
her  to  resume  her  walks  until  this  evening,  when  she  met 
with  another  adventure  not  quite  so  alarming." 

The  bright  blush  grew  brighter  as  he  concluded  the 
sentence. 

"  If  his  object  is  to  pursue  this  vain  hope,"  continued  Sir 
Frederick,  "  a  knowledge  of  your  arrival,  which  must  ine- 
vitably have  reached  him  ere  this,  (for  the  visit  of  a  stranger 
to  these  regions  forms  quite  an  event,)  we  shall  probably 
be  relieved  from  his  unwelcome  presence.  My  present 
design  is  to  return  in  a  few  days  to  a  more  civilized  part 
of  the  country,  as  I  am  satisfied  with  regard  to  the  place 
where  I  shall  avail  myself  of  his  majesty's  permission  to 
take  up  my  residence. 

"  But  you  have  not  yet  told  us  of  many  of  your  ad- 
ventures, in  all  of  which,  we  naturally  feel  the  deepest 
interest." 

The  events  which  have  occupied  many  previous  pages 


PENSEES.  155 

of  our  narrative,  formed  the  topics  of  their  conversation,  and 
the  night  was  far  advanced,  when  Sir  Frederick  Lansdale 
and  his  youthful  companions  bade  each  other  a  temporary 
adieu. 


156  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 


A  CATASTROPHE. 

"  Ton  ceil  comme  Satan  a  mesure  1'abyme, 
Et  ton  ftme  y  plongeant  loin  du  jour  et  de  Dieu, 
A  dit  fc  1'esperance  un  6ternel  adieu!" 

LAMARTINE. 

GENTLY  and  sweetly  did  the  few  remaining  days  of  the 
sojourn  of  our  visitors  in  this  lovely  valley,  glide  away. 
The  slight  inconveniences  of  a  mode  of  life  to  which  they 
had  been  unaccustomed,  now  only  offered  subjects  of  diver- 
sion, and  the  good-nature  of  their  host  compensated  for 
many  defects  in  his  establishment.  There  was  such  plea- 
sure in  rambling  among  these  romantic  wilds!  in  seeking 
the  variety  of  beautiful  wild  flowers  which  the  season  had 
scattered  in  rich  luxuriance  in  their  path — in  climbing  the 
neighbouring  heights,  from  which  a  more  perfect  view  of 
the  windings  of  the  bright  river,  and  the  graceful  outline  of 
the  blue  mountains,  might  be  obtained.  The  novelty  of 
seeing 

"  The  wild  deer  arch  his  neck  from  glades,  and  then 
Unhunted  seek  his  wilderness  again," 

was  to  them  full  of  romantic  interest,  and  it  was  with  some 
difficulty  that  Ellen  could  prevail  on  herself  to  part  with  a 
young  fawn,  which  their  host  had  found  in  his  rambles,  and 
with  which  he  had  presented  her.  The  gentle  creature 
looked  so  meek  and  affectionate  as  it  fed  from  her  hand. 


A  CATASTROPHE.  157 

Often  she  determined  to  take  it  with  her;  but  the  inconve- 
niences of  such  a  compagne  de  voyage  were  represented  in 
too  strong  a  light  to  be  disregarded,  and  little  Fidele  would, 
after  her  departure,  probably  find  his  way  back  to  his 
native  forest,  though  their  host  promised  to  cherish  and  keep 
him  for  her  sake,  until  she  should  return  at  some  future 
day  to  pay  him  another  visit. 

The  salutary  influence  of  these  scenes,  and  the  fresh 
breezes  of  the  mountains,  but  still  more  the  reviving  power 
of  renewed  happiness,  soon  restored  the  rose  to  the  cheek 
of  Ellen,  and  her  step  regained  its  wonted  elasticity.  A 
few  days  sufficed  to  banish  all  traces  of  the  indisposition 
which  had  awakened  so  many  tender  anxieties,  and  the  light 
of  her  sunny  smile  once  more  imparted  hope  and  joy  to  the 
hearts  that  delighted  in  its  radiance. 

The  evening  that  preceded  their  departure  from  the  valley, 
was  one  of  peculiar  loveliness.  A  recent  fall  of  rain  had 
raised  the  river  beyond  its  usual  fulness,  but  it  was  still 
bright  and  pure  as  ever,  and  the  rich  green  of  the  flowering 
shrubs,  that  dipped  their  sweeping  branches  into  its  waves, 
assumed  a  deeper  tint.  The  moon  was  just  rising  "in 
cloudless  blue,"  and  threw  her  silvery  light  on  the  foaming 
spray  that  fell  over  the  rocks,  while  above,  the  deep  current 
reflected  back  her  beams  as  from  a  mirror.  The  shadows 
of  evening  advanced,  but  the  day  had  been  warm,  and  the 
balmy  air  offered  a  temptation  to  an  indulgence,  which  even 
Sir  Frederick  Lansdale,  notwithstanding  his  scrupulous  care 
of  his  health,  found  himself  unable  to  resist.  They  rambled 
slowly  along  their  favourite  pathway,  remarking  the  beauty 
of  the  different  objects  in  view,  until  a  rustic  seat,  contrived 
by  the  ingenuity  of  their  kind  host,  invited  to  a  moment's 
repose. 

"  How  tranquilly  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  that  mirror- 


158  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

like  sheet  of  water,"  said  Ellen,  pointing  to  the  river  almost 
at  their  feet.  "  It  is  beautiful  and  transparent  enough  to 
imagine  it  the  abode  of  the  water-spirits  so  charmingly  de- 
scribed in  the  legends  of  Germany.  I  could  almost  imagine 
some  lovely  sprite  beneath  its  waves." 

"It  would  be  strange,"  returned  Sir  Frederick  with  a 
smile,  "if  you  should  have  power  to  conjure  one  up,  for 
during  the  few  moments  of  silence  that  succeeded  our  arrival 
in  this  spot,  I  imagined  that  I  perceived  some  agitation  in 
the  water  beyond,  and  a  faint  noise  arrested  my  attention, 
though  almost  lost  in  the  dashing  of  the  falls  below.  There! 
— listen!" — he  continued. 

Medwyn  advanced  more  nearly  to  the  water's  edge;  the 
waves  became  more  agitated,  and  sparkled  with  yet  greater 
brilliancy  in  the  moon-beams.  The  wild  legends  of  Ger- 
many seemed  about  to  be  realized,  for  a  light  female  figure 
emerged  from  the  -waves,  and  presented  itself  to  their 
astonished  view.  The  long  ebony  tresses  were  saturated 
with  water,  and  the  clinging  garments  displayed  in  statue- 
like  grace  the  symmetrical  proportions  of  a  perfect  form. 
Medwyn  recognised,  at  a  glance,  his  companion  of  the  sub- 
terranean grotto.  Nimawha,  the  Indian  maiden,  stood  before 
him. 

"There  is  evil  awaiting  thee,"  she  said  to  Medwyn, 
"  and  I  come  to  warn  thee.  A  dark  stranger  is  near,  who 
loves  thee  not.  The  vulture  hath  preyed  on  the  warrior  ere 
now,  and  yonder  white  dove  might  mourn  if  thou  wert  his 
victim.  He  hath  offered  gold  to  Allanawissca  for  thy  life, 
—but  the  warrior  scorned  his  bribe,  even  as  the  dark 
stranger  scorned  the  poor  Indian  maiden.  Yet  his  own 
evil  eye  is  upon  thee — I  have  warned  thee, — remember!" 

She  was  about  to  plunge  again  into  the  waves,  when 


A  CATASTROPHE.  159 

Medwyn  arrested  her,  and  addressing  her  in  her  own  wild 
manner,  he  said, 

"  Why  is  Nimawha  here,  so  far  from  the  Eagle's  nest? 
hath  she  left  his  abode?" 

"  The  Eagle  dwells  not  in  caves,"  returned  the  Indian 
maiden.  "  Logan  is  near.  He  returns  to  his  desolate  home. 
He  has  none  now  to  love  him  but  poor  Nimawha,  whom  he 
sheltered  when  she  had  none  to  pity  her.  When  he  is  old, 
Nirnawha  will  comfort  him,  and  Allanawissca  will  protect 
him."  As  she  said  this  her  brilliant  eyes  were  cast  down. 
"Forget  not," — she  resumed,  "the  warning  1  give  thee; — 
there  is  danger  near." 

As  she  spoke  the  last  words,  she  plunged  into  the  silvery 
stream,  and  at  that  moment  a  cloud  passed  over  the  face  of 
the  moon.  The  breeze  swept  it  on,  and  the  planet  reappeared 
in  all  her  glory,  but  the  form  of  the  Indian  maiden  had 
vanished. 

Ellen  listened  with  a  shudder  to  the  words  of  warning 
which  Medwyn  repeated,  and  even  Sir  Frederick  Lansdale, 
whose  nerves  were  not  so  easily  agitated,  acknowledged 
that  there  was  some  cause  for  alarm,  when  they  considered 
the  desperate  character  of  the  "dark  stranger,"  by  whom 
they  naturally  conjectured  Nimawha  signified  de  Gourville. 

But  amid  the  novelty  of  the  scenes  which  succeeded 
their  sojourn  in  the  valley,  the  circumstance  just  narrated 
faded  away.  They  left  their  kind  host,  who  parted  with 
his  visitors  with  unfeigned  regret,  and  returned  toward  a 
more  cultivated  region.  A  continued  rain  arrested  the  little 
cortege,  when  they  had  accomplished  only  a  part  of  their 
journey.  It  was  tantalizing;  for  in  those  wilds,  even  when 
all  around  was  restored  to  its  usual  brightness,  the  mountain 
streams  did  not  admit  of  a  passage. 

"  I  can  find  something  to  pass  away  the  time,"  said  the 


160  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

host  of  the  humble  habitation  in  which  they  had  found  shelter 
for  two  days,  and  who  seemed  to  congratulate  himself,  as 
a  bright  thought  entered  his  usually  obtuse  understanding. 
"  The  moon  is  full  tp-night,  and  if  you  will  trust  to  my 
guidance,  I  believe  I  can  show  you  something  that  will  be 
better  worth  looking  at  than  the  walls  of  my  poor  cottage." 

The  offer  of  variety  under  such  circumstances  was  too 
tempting  to  be  refused,  and  with  some  anxiety  they  watched 
the  aspect  of  the  heavens,  on  which  the  promises  of  their 
host  seemed  partly  to  depend.  The  sun  set  in  "the  clouds 
of  purple  and  gold  that  on  his  western  throne  attend,"  but 
the  full  moon  rose  in  cloudless  splendour,  and  the  dazzling 
refulgence  gave  them  almost  the  light  of  day. 

Their  host  appeared  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction  on  his 
rugged  features. 

"  It  is  a  glorious  night  for  our  purpose,"  he  said,  "  I  am 
ready  to  fulfil  my  promise." 

His  guests  followed  him  as  he  silently  strode  before  them 
over  a  rough  pathway  that  led  down  a  gradual  descent. 
They  walked  on  for  some  distance,  when  the  rushing  sound 
of  water  was  heard. 

"  The  stream  shows  the  effect  of  the  recent  rain,"  said 
their  host,  as  he  pointed  to  a  brawling  torrent  just  below 
the  descent.  "It  is  not  often  as  full  as  you  see  it  now. 
The  path-way  is  steep  and  rough  just  here,"  he  continued, 
"but  pause  a  moment,  and  look  up, — perhaps  you  will  be 
rewarded  for  your  pains." 

His  guests  had  hitherto  been  so  closely  engaged  in  sur- 
mounting the  difficulties  of  the  path-way,  that  they  had 
bestowed  but  little  thought  on  any  other  objects.  Their 
attention  was  now,  however,  awakened,  and  as  they  simul- 
taneously obeyed  the  injunction  of  their  guide,  exclamations 
of  wonder  and  admiration  burst  from  each  lip. 


A  CATASTROPHE.  161 

A  dark,  cavernous  ravine  lay  below,  in  complete  shade, 
leaving  the  imagination  to  picture  whatever  objects  it  might 
fancy  amid  its  obscurity.  Masses  of  foliage  on  either  side 
of  its  inaccessible  heights  were  partially  illuminated  by  the 
light  of  the  moon,  and  their  shadows  varying  with  every 
breath  of  the  summer  breeze  that  played  gently  through 
them.  Then  uprose  the  enormous  battlements  of  solid 
rock,  and  the  mighty  arch,  resembling  the  gigantic  portal 
of  some  grand  ruined  castle,  gleaming  brightly  in  the  placid 
moon-light,  while  the  pale  blue  sky  with  its  countless  gems, 
sparkled  through  the  opening  above.  The  stream  that  by 
day-light  is  almost  invisible,  descending  from  the  vast 
height,  and  by  this  magic  light  shining  like  silver, — the 
awful  stillness,  unbroken  by  naught  but  the  dashing  of  the 
torrent  that  swept  through  the  valley  below, — the  faint 
outline  of  the  distant  mountains,  all  conspired  to  strike  our 
travellers  with  mingled  wonder  and  awe.  They  gazed  in 
speechless  admiration  at  the  magnificent  object  before  them, 
and  almost  started  at  the  voice  of  their  guide,  who  first 
broke  the  silence  that  reigned  throughout  the  scene. 

"  It  is  strange,"  he  said,  as  a  smile,  mingled  with  a 
glance  of  triumph  at  the  astonishment  he  had  occasioned, 
passed  over  his  face.  "  It  is  very  strange,  that  with  such 
bridges,  travellers  should  be  detained  in  this  country  by  the 
swelling  of  a  mountain  stream." 

His  guests  acknowledged  the  justice  of  his  facetious 
remark,  and  offered  him  their  united  thanks  for  the  delight- 
ful surprise  he  had  prepared  them.  He  waited  with  ex- 
emplary patience  until  they  had  viewed  the  glorious  arch 
in  all  its  different  aspects,  and  until  warned  at  last,  by  the 
freshening  breeze,  of  the  expediency  of  a  retreat,  they 
slowly  retraced  their  steps,  casting,  as  they  ascended  the 
steep,  many  a  "  lingering  look  behind." 


162  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

An  irresistible  impulse  led  Medwyn  to  take  another  view 
of  this  splendid  arch  after  parting  with  his  loved  companions 
for  the  night.  A  guide  was  unnecessary,  for  the  path-way 
was  traced  with  sufficient  distinctness  to  prevent  any  fear 
of  being  lost  in  the  mazes  of  the  forest.  "He  found  his  way 
with  ease  back  to  the  spot  from  which  their  host  had  first 
awakened  their  attention  to  the  magnificent  scene  before 
them,  and  leaned  against  a  projecting  rock,  to  survey  it 
more  at  leisure. 

While  he  was  thus  contemplating  this  wonder  of  nature, 
and  while  his  thoughts  were  rising  in  grateful  adoration  to 
that  Almighty  Being  whose  majesty  and  grandeur  are  equal- 
ed only  by  his  love,  what  was  passing  through  the  dark 
spirit  that  was  hovering  near  him?  On  the  summit  of  that 
superb  arch  stood  de  Gourville,  revolving  in  his  mind  the 
portentous  thoughts  of  ambition, — of  hatred, — of  revenge, 
— that  chased  each  other  through  it  like  the  demons  of  a 
region  of  despair. 

"  I  was  bereft  of  reason,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  to 
seek  to  entrust  to  such  hands  a  deed  which  my  own  should 
alone  perform.  Yet  it  would  have  been  a  source  of  stern 
satisfaction  to  know  that  he  died  by  the  hand  of  a  savage. 
The  fool  glared  on  me  with  his  dark  eye,  as  if  I  had  pro- 
posed the  deed  to  one  who  could  have  lost  caste  by  its 
execution,  or  perchance  his  ire  was  kindled  by  the  con- 
tempt with  which  I  spoke  of  Nimawha.  But  why  should 
I  waste  my  thoughts  on  such  beings? — time  presses, — the 
deed  must  be  done.  Rash,  haughty  youth, — thou  that  hast 
crossed  my  path  at  every  turn, — on  this  spot  do  I  renew 
my  vow  of  vengeance  against  thee!  Thou  shall  die!" 

A  flush  of  rage  rose  to  his  brow,  as  he  grasped  the 
instrument  of  death  concealed  in  his  breast.  He  turned  on 
his  heel  to  leave  the  spot,  when  suddenly  he  found  himself 


A  CATASTROPHE.  163 

arrested  by  a  grasp  like  that  of  a  giant,  and  the  dark  eye  of 
Allanawissca  glared  on  his  own.  An  echo  of  his  last  words 
rang  in  his  ear,  "vengeance  against  thec!  Thou  shalt 
die!"  With  all  the  strength  of  desperation  he  struggled  to 
free  himself  from  that  deadly  embrace. — It  was  in  vain, — 
he  felt  himself  borne  as  if  by  Herculean  strength  to  the 
brow  of  the  tremendous  precipice.  Nearer,  and  nearer,  he 
approached  the  place  of  death; — his  own  words  again  rang 
in  his  ear, — "  on  this  spot  do  I  renew  my  vow  of  ven- 
geance against  thee! — Thou  shalt  die!" 

A  loud  crashing  sound,  as  if  from  the  falling  of  some 
weight  from  above  the  arch  he  was  contemplating,  awoke 
the  echoes,  and  fell  with  startling  force  on  Medwyn's  ear. 
A  moment  passed,  and  the  torrent  swept  by,  bearing  on  its 
troubled  waters  a  human  body.  The  bright  moonlight 
shone  for  an  instant  on  the  features,  and  Medwyn  recog- 
nised the  retributive  justice  of  offended  Heaven,  as  that  mo- 
mentary gleam  revealed  the  dark  brow  of  de  Gourville! 


164  A  TALE  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 


v    **t"  -     *    « 

.  *       •  «*  ^ 

CONCLUSION. 

^*  0 

"What  is  the  world  to  theml 

Its  pomp,  its  pleasure,  and  its  nonsense  all, 

Who  in  each  other  clasp  whatever  fair 

High  fancy  forms,  or  lavish  hearts  can  wish."" 

SEA  SONS. 

A  FEW  words  will  suffice  for  the  remaining  events  of  our 
narrative,  which  may  be  easily  anticipated.  Sir  Frederick 
Lansdale,  his  lovely  daughter,  and  his  son,  (for  he  was 
soon  permitted  to  claim  by  the  holiest  and  most  tender  ties, 
that  love  and  confidence  which  had  for  many  previous  years 
been  his,)  found  a  resting  place  from  all  their  wanderings  in 
the  country  of  their  adoption;  and  though  they  revisited 
their  native  land,  where  Medwyn  found  his  friend,  de  Vau- 
demont,  in  possession  of  all  that  wealth  and  affection  could 
bestow,  they  considered  the  place  where  their  happiest  hours 
had  been  passed,  their  home.  In  view  of  those  beautiful 
mountains  which  they  loved  for  the  sweet  associations  con- 
nected with  them,  as  well  as  for  their  own  charms,— though 
but  little  more  than  a  hundred  miles  from  the  sea-coast,  they 
selected  their  place  of  residence.  Beneath  their  fostering 
care,  "  the  wilderness  and  the  solitary  place  was  glad,"  and 
"  the  desert  rejoiced  and  blossomed  as  the  rose."  Sir 
Frederick  Lansdale  found  his  youth  renewed  in  the  joyous 
light  that  illumined  the  sweet  evening  of  his  well  spent  life, 
and  long  participated  in  the  happiness  and  prosperity  of  his 


CONCLUSION.  165 

••   ***!?  -"i  ** 

*  » 

children;  and  in  that  part  of  the  still  comparatively  wild  but 
lovely  region,  named  in  honour  of  the  virgin  queen,  which 
they  made  the  place  of  their  abode,  its  inhabitants  yet 
fondly  trace  the  manly  virtues  that  distinguished  the  cha- 
racter of  Percy  Medwyn,  and  the  gentle  graces  of  Ellen 
Lansdale. 


tf 

* 
JV*    * 


«*  A        *5;    »^f"  , 


FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 


CHAMOUNI. 

EXCURSION  TO  THE  VALLEY  OF  CHAMOUNI. — ALPINE  SCENERY.— MT. 
BLANC  SEEN  FROM  ST.  MARTIN. — LAC  DE  CHEDE. — GLACIERS. — 
MER  DE  GLACE. 

OUR  anticipated  travels  have  already  begun,  and  our 
course  has  been  directed  first  to  the  valley  of  Chamouni, 
which  offers  so  many  attractions,  or  rather  so  many  won- 
ders, that  it  has  become  quite  a  fashionable  place  of  resort. 

We  left  Geneva  yesterday,  and  there  with  our  kind  host- 
ess left  our  petit s  campugnons  with  the  exception  of  the 
eldest,  who  is  now  very  well  able  to  take  care  of  himself, 
even  in  these  mountain  adventures,  where  we  were  often 
warned  that  we  must  remember  the  selfish  motto  of  "chacun 
pour  soi." 

During  the  first  eight  leagues  of  our  route,  we  found 
nothing  worthy  of  remark,  as  the  country  in  the  immediate 
neighbourhood  of  Geneva  was  bereft  of  all  interest  when 
we  lost  sight  of  the  town  and  the  lake.  It  was  then  cha- 
racterized by  the  same  wild  features  which  distinguish  the 
mountains  of  Jura,  and  the  inhabitants  were  as  uninteresting 
as  their  country.  The  few  Savoyards  we  encountered  in 
this  barren  region,  appeared,  for  the  most  part,  to  belong  to 
the  unfortunate  race  of  cretins,  who,  notwithstanding  their 


168  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

idiocy,  supposed  to  be  occasioned  by  the  enormous  size  of 
the  goitre,  are  superstiliously  believed,  by  the  ignorant  in- 
habitants of  these  mountain?,  to  be  the  peculiar  favourites 
of  heaven. 

As  we  approached  the  little  village  of  Cluse,  it  became  a 
problem  rather  difficult  of  solution,  how  we  were  to  escape 
from  the  prison  of  mountains,  whose  dark,  craggy  sides 
surrounded  us  on  every  side,  for  in  sailor's  -phrase,  we 
seemed  to  be  completely  land-locked.  The  mystery,  how- 
ever, cleared  up  as  we  crossed  the  Arve,  a  rapid  and  brawl- 
ing stream,  which  wound  its  way  among  the  innumerable 
chains  of  mountains.  The  houses  on  one  side  of  the  prin- 
cipal street  of  this  small  village,  are  actually  built  against 
the  mountain's  side,  and  after  issuing  through  a  little  arch 
from  its  damp  and  dark  windings,  we  found  ourselves 
among  some  of  the  wonders  of  Alpine  scenery. 

Although  I  agree  perfectly  with  the  British  traveller,  who 
says  it  is  impossible  to  represent  the  wonders  and  beauties 
of  natural  scenery  even  in  painting,  and  an  attempt  at  de- 
scription must  always  convey  but  a  vague  idea  of  the  ob- 
jects it  would  endeavour  to  present  to  the  mind;  I  do  not 
find  this  a  sufficient  reason  for  declining  it  altogether,  espe- 
cially as  I  have  the  assurance  that  my  sketches  will  give 
you  pleasure,  even  if  they  are  not  so  interesting  as  they 
might  be.  He  was  writing  for  the  world, — I,  for  my 
sister. 

To  continue,  after  this  little  digression.  The  route 
passed  through  the  village  of  Cluse,  and  then  led  us  along 
the  banks  of  the  Arve,  sometimes  so  close  to  its  brink,  that 
the  wheels  of  the  carriage  were  almost  in  the  water,  while 
on  the  other  side  rose  the  bare  and  rugged  sides  of  the 
mountains,  whose  tops  occasionally  shot  up  into  sharp 
peaks,  cleaving  the  clouds  that  gathered  around  us.  Some- 


CHAMOUNI.  169 

times  enormous  pi  ejections  from  their  sides  seemed  to 
threaten  the  traveller  below,  and  an  idea  of  their  vast  height 
was  appropriately  conveyed  by  the  masses  of  snow  in  the 
clefts  of  the  rocks. 

Amid  this  wild  scenery,  we  continued  until  we  reached 
the  valley  of  Maglan,  whose  small  but  fertile  and  smiling 
fields  were  beautifully  contrasted  with  the  frowning  rocks 
above  and  opposite  to  it.  Among  these  we  discovered  the 
entrance  to  a  grotto,  which  is  said  to  be  very  extensive,  and 
is  generally  visited  by  travellers;  but  the  ascent  to  it  is 
fatiguing,  and  our  curiosity  was  not  a  sufficient  stimulus  for 
such  an  enterprise. 

The  next  wonder  we  met  with  was  a  cascade,  (the  Arpe- 
naz,)  which  falls  from  a  height  of  eight  hundred  feet  above 
the  road.  A  cascade,  from  such  a  height,  among  the  Alps, 
is  nothing  remarkable,  for  we  met  with  them  at  every  turn; 
but  this  one  owes  its  peculiar  beauty  to  its  situation, — com- 
ing, apparently,  from  the  very  summit  of  the  mountain,  and 
falling  down  a  perpendicular  wall  of  rock;  it  is  broken  into 
a  cloud  of  white  and  fleecy  mist,  and  on  reaching  a  projec- 
tion about  half-way  down  the  mountain's  side,  the  waters 
again  unite,  and  form  a  brawling  torrent  for  the  rest  of  its 
descent. 

This  variety  of  mountains,  rocks  and  streams,  continued 
to  draw  exclamations  of  surprise  and  pleasure  from  each  of 
our  little  party,  until  we  reached  the  village  of  St.  Martin, 
where  we  were  to  spend  the  night.  So  often  had  we  heard 
of  the  view  of  Mont  Blanc  from  this  spot,  that  we  were  not  a 
little  disappointed  to  find  everything  enveloped  in  clouds  on 
our  arrival.  Our  only  resource  was  to  retire  to  rest,  hoping 
for  a  more  favourable  view  in  the  morning.  Happily,  our 
deferred  hopes  were  realized,  for  on  sallying  out  to  the 
bridge  which  crosses  the  Arve  at  this  place,  at  a  very  early 
12 


170  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

hour  the  next  day,  we  were  rewarded  for  our  trouble  and 
our  patience,  by  a  scene,  to  whose  beauties  no  pen  or  pencil, 
however  accomplished,  could  do  justice. 

The  bridge  on  which  we  stood,  appeared  to  be  exactly 
in  the  centre  of  an  amphitheatre  of  mountains,  and  the 
complete  circle  they  formed  looked  so  small,  that  we  might 
almost  have  imagined  that  we  were  surveying  a  panoramic 
painting.  This  idea,  however,  was  soon  dissipated  by  the 
grandeur  of  the  objects  in  view,  especially  the  principal 
feature  in  the  scene,  the  lofty  and  snow-crowned  Mont 
Blanc,  whose  outline  of  dazzling  white,  rendered  still  more 
brilliant  by  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun,  was  in  complete 
relief  upon  the  ethereal  blue  of  a  cloudless  sky.  Just 
opposite  these  eternal  snows,  at  the  base  of  the  mountains, 
were  the  same  bright  foliage  and  smiling  verdure  that  had 
before  called  forth  our  admiration  in  the  valley  of  Maglan, 
presenting  in  vivid  contrast  the  terrors  of  winter  and  the 
charms  of  summer,  in  the  same  scene.  The  cottages  of 
the  peasants  in  the  valley,  and  the  spires  of  the  village 
churches  relieved  the  landscape  from  the  effect  of  its  wilder 
and  more  savage  features.  The  rapid  and  foaming  river 
beneath  us  wound  its  way  through  the  valley,  until  it  was 
lost  to  the  eye  amid  the  surrounding  mountains,  and,  falling 
occasionally  in  cascades  over  the  rocks  in  its  bed,  completed 
the  variety  and  beauty  of  the  picture. 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  we  tore  ourselves  from 
the  contemplation  of  this  charming  scene,  to  return  to  the 
inn,  where  everything  was  prepared  for  our  journey.  The 
carriage  which  was  awaiting  us,  excited  not  a  little  merriment 
among  our  party,  being  a  char-a-banc,  one  of  those  little 
vehicles  you  have  seen  represented  in  pictures  of  the  Alps, 
where  the  persons  within  sit  sideways,  with  their  feet  resting 
on  a  bench  on  the  outside.  On  inquiring  the  motive  for 


CHAMOUNI.  171 

making  them  in  this  manner,  we  were  told  that  it  was  on 
account  of  the  extreme  narrowness  of  the  roads,  as  this 
form  allowed  the  wheels  to  be  closer  together  than  any  other. 
They  are  built  entirely  without  springs,  so  that  you  may 
imagine  the  roughness  of  their  motion,  but  our  spirits  were 
elevated  by  the  pure  and  exhilarating  air  of  the  mountains 
to  such  a  degree,  that  trifling  inconveniences  were  quite 
unheeded,  and  the  beautiful  variety  of  scenery  on  our  route, 
contributed  to  banish  all  sense  of  personal  desagremens. 

The  finest  view  of  Mont  Blanc  which  we  had  during  the 
day  was  from  the  brink  of  the  small  Lac  de  Chede,  where 
its  summit  rises  in  dazzling  magnificence  above  the  dark 
green  of  the  fir-clad  mountains  below  it.  A  fine  cascade  in 
the  vicinity  of  this  splendid  scene,  closed  the  charms  of  the 
route,  for  it  began  gradually  to  change,  as  we  approached 
more  nearly  to  Mont  Blanc,  and  we  realized,  on  our  arrival 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  this  mighty  mountain,  in  all  its 
force,  the  poet's  idea,  that  "  distance  lends  enchantment  to 
the  view."  The  beauties,  one  by  one,  disappeared,  or  were 
rather  lost  in  their  exaggerated  proportions,  like  objects  in  a 
fearful  dream.  The  soft  and  cloud-like  masses,  which  had 
appeared  so  graceful  and  lovely  in  the  distance,  changed  to 
frightful  and  barren  rocks,  and  the  needles  of  Mont  Blanc, 
those  beautiful  cones,  which  had  so  often  challenged  our 
admiration  during  our  journey,  we  found  composed  of 
hundreds  of  flinty  spires,  bristling  upon  the  sides  of  the 
mountain,  and  terminating  in  one  enormous  peak  that  seemed 
to  cleave  the  very  heavens. 

We  are  near  enough  to  see  the  glaciers,  those  wonders  of 
which  we  read  and  hear  so  much,  and  have  already  passed 
quite  close  to  the  glacier  de  Rossons,  esteemed  one  of  the 
finest  of  them  all,  though  not  very  large.  We  had  not 
formed  any  distinct  idea  of  their  appearance,  and  as  it  may 


172        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

be  the  same  case  with  yourself,  I  will  give  you  the  result  of 
our  observation. 

The  valley  in  which  we  are  at  present,  runs  between 
two  ranges  of  mountains,  rising  in  a  succession  of  lofty 
peaks,  indented  rather  than  separated  by  immense  ravines, 
which  are  filled  with  these  masses  of  ice.  The  largest  of 
the  glaciers  are  supposed  to  be  formed  from  the  streams 
beneath  them,  and  from  which  some  of  the  principal  rivers 
of  Europe  derive  their  source.  I  am  not  philosopher 
enough  to  explain  the  process  by  which  these  streams  pro- 
duce the  enormous  masses  of  ice  above  them,  or  to  say 
whether  those  masses  have  not  rather  been  formed  by  the 
congelation  of  the  melted  snow  on  the  sides  of  the  moun- 
tains. All  this  must  be  left  for  wiser  heads  to  settle; — the 
appearance  is  all  I  can  speak  of,  and  this  is  so  very  extra- 
ordinary, that  any  attempt  to  portray  it  will  give  but  a  faint 
idea  of  the  reality. 

The  glacier  de  Bossons,  which  we  passed  on  our  way 
hither,  resembles  a  while  hoar  frost,  on  the  grandest  ima- 
ginable scale;  for  some  of  the  flakes,  or  spires  of  ice,  are 
more  than  a  hundred  feet  high.  Those  of  this  glacier 
appeared  beautifully  white,  though  they  are  often  mingled 
with  earth  and  stones,  which  are  gradually  forced  up  by 
the  expansion  of  the  ice,  and  it  is  not  unusual  to  see  rocks 
of  a  large  size  upon  the  tops  of  the  spires. 

MER  DE  GLACE. 

Some  idea  of  the  enormous  size  of  these  frozen  masses, 
is  afforded  us,  by  the  fact  of  their  undergoing  no  sensible 
diminution  by  the  summer's  sun,  which  we  found  warm 
enough  to  be  very  uncomfortable  to  our  feelings. 

The  most  splendid  of  these  glaciers  is  the  Mer  de  Glace, 


MER  DE  GLACE.  173 

so  called  both  from  its  immense  size  and  peculiar  appear- 
ance, and  it  can  be  seen  only  by  ascending  the  Mont  Anvert 
in  its  vicinity.  This  we  determined  to  do  immediately  after 
our  arrival  in  the  valley,  and  mules  and  guides  were,  ac- 
cordingly, soon  ready  for  the  expedition.  Behold  us  then, 
mounted  on  these  long-eared  steeds,  with  a  man  at  the  bridle 
rein  to  guide  and  direct  their  course,  that  is,  of  mine  and  a 
younger  member  of  the  party,  for  the  gentlemen  disdained 
such  aid. 

The  best  mule,  and  the  most  experienced  guide  being 
accorded,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  me,  I  had  the  honour  of 
leading  the  van;  and  we  began  the  toilsome  ascent  of  a 
mountain  six  thousand  feet  high.  Whether  I  should  have 
had  the  courage  to  venture  on  such  an  expedition,  if  all  its 
difficulties  and  fatigues  had  been  distinctly  foreseen,  is 
rather  a  matter  of  doubt;  though  after  it  is  happily  accom- 
plished, a  visit  to  the  Mer  de  Glace,  certainly  leaves  nothing 
to  regret. 

The  narrow  and  rugged  path  which  we  slowly  pursued, 
wound  in  a  zig-zag  course  up  the  mountain's  side,  and  was 
so  rocky  and  steep,  that  the  mules  were  compelled  to  have 
recourse  to  a  climbing  attitude  and  motion,  that  was  far 
from  being  agreeable.  In  addition  to  this,  the  pathway 
became  narrower  and  narrower  as  we  ascended,  until  there 
was  barely  room  for  the  animal  to  tread,  and  while  the  almost 
interminable  mass  of  rocks  above  seemed  to  be  threaten- 
ing us  on  one  side,  a  fearful  precipice  yawned  at  our  feet  on 
the  other. 

Just  on  the  brink  of  one  of  those  precipices,  whence  the 
base  of  the  mountain,  several  thousand  feet  below,  was 
visible,  the  path  had  been  washed  by  a  recent  shower,  and 
a  few  inches  more  of  earth  on  one  side,  or  less  on  the  other, 
would  have  rendered  it  impassable.  While  the  guides  were 


174  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

exerting  their  skill  to  get  us  safely  over  it,  the  tinkling  of 
bells  was  heard,  and  four  cows  suddenly  made  their  ap- 
pearance, walking  very  sedately  one  after  the  other,  on  the 
narrow  and  shelving  ledge.  At  this  rencontre  there  was  a 
dead  pause,  for  the  cows  seemed  quite  as  unwilling  to  risk 
their  necks  as  the  mules,  and  there  was  no  retreat  for  either. 
The  matter  was  decided  by  my  guide,  who  obliged  the  cows 
to  yield  in  the  only  practicable  way,  which  was  to  scramble 
a  few  feet  up  the  side  of  the  mountain,  as  just  on  that  spot 
there  was  fortunately  a  little  earth  and  grass,  and  there  they 
contrived  to  remain,  almost  erect  upon  their  hind  legs,  with 
their  horns  in  the  air,  offering  the  agreeable  probability  of 
tumbling  down  upon  us,  with  all  the  consequences  of  such 
a  feat,  while  we  were  passing  them. 

After  climbing  up  in  this  manner  for  three  hours,  we 
attained  a  small  Hospice  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain,  from 
which  we  had  a  full  view  of  the  Mer  tit  Glace.  The  path 
leading  to  it  presented  more  difficulties  than  any  we  had  en- 
countered in  our  ascent,  but  such  an  opportunity  was  too 
tempting  to  be  declined,  and  being  provided  with  the  long 
iron-shod  staves  used  by  Alpine  travellers  on  these  occa- 
sions, we  descended,  and  soon  found  ourselves  amid  these 
"  thrilling  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice." 

This  glacier  differs  from  that  of  the  Bossons  in  the 
broader  undulations  of  its  surface,  which  are  here  blended 
into  one  common  mass.  The  part  which  we  visited,  and 
as  far  as  we  could  see  it,  (for  it  is  eighteen  miles  in  length, 
and  a  mile  wide,)  resembled  immense  waves  of  the  ocean 
suddenly  arrested  in  the  midst  of  a  violent  storm,  and  con. 
verted  into  ice;  and  it  is  this  resemblance  which  has  given 
it  its  name  of  the  Mer  de  Glace.  A  beautiful  stream  was 
shown  us  in  the  midst  of  the  glacier,  flowing  rapidly  in  its 


MER  DE  GLACE.  175 

crystal  bed,  until  it  was  lost  in  a  chasm  of  the  ice,  which 
our  guides  told  us  was  three  hundred  feet  deep. 

We  walked  about  on  this  magnificent  glacier,  until  the 
chilling  effect  warned  us  of  the  expediency  of  a  retreat,  and 
after  resting  half  an  hour  at  the  Hospice,  descended  the 
mountain  on  foot,  which,  though  very  fatiguing  from  the 
rugged  steepness  of  the  path,  was  less  disagreeable,  and 
certainly  less  dangerous,  than  betaking  ourselves  again  to 
the  mules  would  have  been. 


176        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 


THE  COL  DE  BALM. 

ADVENTURES  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CHAMOUNI. — ROUTE  OF  THE  COL  DE 
BALM. — SPLENDID  PROSPECT. — PLEASANT  PROMENADE. 

Martigny,  August  4th. 

We  are  now  in  the  village  of  Martigny,  which  we  reach- 
ed last  evening,  after  a  few  adventures  that  were  not  par- 
ticularly agreeable. 

Having  decided  to  cross  the  mountains  at  the  Col  de 
Balm,  in  preference  to  the  other  road  called  the  Tete  Noire, 
though  the  latter  had  greatly  the  advantage  in  the  smooth- 
ness of  the  ascent,  we  willingly  made  the  sacrifice  of  our 
comfort  for  the  sake  of  the  superb  view  which  was  pro- 
mised us  from  the  summit  of  the  Col  de  Balm,  and  began 
our  march  yesterday  morning.  The  road  admits  the  passage 
of  a  small  char-a-banc  only  a  short  distance,  and  we  were 
soon  obliged  to  mount  the  mules  as  we  had  done  on  the 
Mont  Anvert.  The  route,  however,  was  less  unpleasant,  as 
it  led  up  the  side  of  a  mountain;  barren  enough,  it  is  true, 
but  covered  with  a  scanty  coat  of  short  grass,  which  ren- 
dered the  motion  of  our  little  steeds  less  fatiguing  than  the 
scrambling  gait  of  the  former  adventure;  but  this  advantage 
we  were  not  long  to  enjoy,  for  the  path  became  steeper  as 
we  mounted  higher,  and  to  increase  the  difficulties  of  the 
ascent,  the  vapour-like  clouds  of  which  had  been  threatening 
us  from  the  beginning  of  our  journey,  began  to  descend  in 


COL  DE  BALM.  177 

rain,  which  increased  to  a  heavy  shower  before  we  reached 
the  chalet  on  the  summit  of  the  Col  de  Balm. 

It  was  happy  for  us  that  we  had  not  the  precipices  of  the 
route  to  the  Mer  de  Glace  to  encounter,  for  a  gust  of  wind 
came  sweeping  up  from  the  valley  below  us  with  tornado- 
like  violence,  just  before  we  attained  the  summit  of  the 
mountain.  Finding  it  impossible  to  keep  my  seat  on  the 
mule,  I  descended  and  endeavoured  to  walk,  but  the  soft 
earth  yielded  at  every  step,  and  the  fatigue  occasioned  by 
our  former  excursion,  in  addition  to  the  wind  and  rain, 
increasing  every  moment,  convinced  me  that  this  too  was 
entirely  impracticable.  In  a  sort  of  despair,  I  sat  down  on 
the  grass,  until  the  good  old  patient  guide  wrapped  me  in 
a  cloak,  and  put  me  again  on  the  mule,  with  an  umbrella  in 
my  hand: — a  most  useless  precaution,  this  last,  for  the 
wind  instantly  deprived  me  of  it,  and  away  it  went  whirling 
over  and  over,  until  it  was  fairly  lodged  on  a  bed  of  snow, 
in  a  ravine  two  miles  distant  on  the  other  side  of  the  moun- 
tain, where  we  found  it  afterwards  in  descending.  Certain 
it  is,  that  no  palace  was  ever  entered  with  more  satisfaction 
than  was  the  miserable  hut  on  the  summit  of  the  Col  de 
Balm  on  this  occasion. 

While  we  were  drying  our  garments  by  a  blazing  fire, 
and  partaking  of  the  rude  fare  afforded  by  the  chalet,  the 
clouds  gradually  rose  above  the  mountains,  and  left  us  a 
splendid  view  of  the  chain  of  Alps  on  each  side  of  us. 
The  valleys  descending  on  either  side  of  the  Col  de  Balm 
wind  like  a  river  in  its  banks  through  these  enormous 
heights,  presenting  in  savage  grandeur,  and  wild  magnifi- 
cence, a  scene,  of  which  any  effort  at  description  would  be 
utterly  fruitless.  The  snow-clad  mountains  of  the  interior 
of  Switzerland,  are  its  softest  and  most  beautiful  features, 
being  the  most  distant;  and  in  truth,  this  is  a  charm,  which 


178  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

for  the  future  we  shall,  most  probably,  always  associate 
with  these  awful  regions. 

Having  been  warned  by  our  guides,  that  we  should  be 
obliged  to  walk  a  part  of  the  way  down  the  mountain  on 
this  side,  we  began  our  journey  on  foot,  and  soon  found 
the  reasonableness  of  their  requisition  in  the  steepness  and 
difficulty  of  the  path,  as  it  was  infinitely  worse  than  any- 
thing we  had  heretofore  encountered.  With  a  staff  in  one 
hand,  and  the  other  resting  on  the  arm  of  the  good  old 
guide,  who  told  me,  by  way  of  encouragement,  that  I 
walked  like  a  chamois,  I  trudged  along.  The  gentlemen 
most  probably  found  it  little  less  laborious,  though  they 
(of  course)  scorned  to  complain,  and  we  endeavoured  to 
beguile  the  fatigue  of  the  route  by  amusing  ourselves  with 
the  wonderful  tales  of  the  guides  about  the  hunters  of  the 
Alps,  and  making  them  again  and  again  repeat  the  shrill 
and  peculiar  whistle  of  the  mountains,  which  may  be  heard 
at  a  great  distance,  echoed  from  rock  to  rock.  It  reminded 
us  of  some  of  Sir  Walter's  scenes  of  the  Highlands  of  Scot- 
land, and  we  could  almost  have  imagined  the  bands  of 
Roderick  Dhu  springing  up  from  the  surrounding  rocks 
and  shrubs. 

A  flash  of  lightning  warned  us,  when  half  our  journey 
was  accomplished,  that  the  rain  was  not  over;  and  the  roar 
of  the  thunder,  reverberating  among  the  mountains,  though 
grand  and  sublime,  was  far  from  producing  a  pleasing  effect, 
when  we  considered  the  prospect  before  us.  The  rain 
soon  again  began  to  descend,  and  increased  to  such  a  tor- 
rent, that  we  took  refuge  in  a  little  barn  on  the  road  side, 
where  the  newly  gathered  hay  offered  us  a  most  welcome 
seat.  Night  was,  however,  approaching,  and  as  the  guides 
told  us  it  would  rather  grow  worse  than  better,  we  con- 
tinued our  toilsome  march,  and  arrived  at  Martigny,  drenched 


COL  DE  BALM.  179 

with  rain,  after  an  agreeable  little  promenade  of  nearly  four 
leagues,  upon  a  road  over  which  an  English  or  a  Virginia 
sportsman  would  hardly  have  trusted  his  favourite  dog,  and 
certainly  not  his  horse. 

To-day  we  are  reposing  after  our  adventures,  but  our 
design  is  to  reach  the  top  of  the  grand  Mont  St.  Bernard 
to-morrow,  where  the  hospice  and  all  its  wonders  will 
afford  a  good  excuse  for  the  continuation  of  my  journal. 


180  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 


MONT  ST.  BERNARD. 

ASCENT  OF  THE  GREAT  ST.  BERNARD. — PICTURE  OP  A  CARAVAN  ON 
THE  ROUTE  TO  THE  PROPHET'S  TOMB. — KlND  RECEPTION  BY  THE 
FATHERS  OF  THE  HOSPICE. — THE  DOGS  OF  ST.  BERNARD. — THE 
CHAPEL. — THE  MORGUE.— CHIEF  PLEASURE  OF  THE  VISIT. 

WE  left  the  little  town  of  Martigny  early  on  the  fifth, 
and  began  our  pilgrimage  to  the  celebrated  Mont  St. 
Bernard.  The  ascent  of  the  Alps  commences  near  the 
town,  but  the  road  is  wide  enough  to  admit  of  a  small  char- 
a-banc  for  more  than  half  the  distance  to  the  Hospice.  The 
mules,  with  their  saddles  on,  were,  accordingly  attached  to 
the  little  vehicle,  and  slowly  drew  us  up  the  mountain. 
Everything  around  us  looked  dark,  gloomy  and  barren, 
and  the  few  inhabitants  of  the  mountains  we  encountered, 
were  proportionally  miserable; — frequently  deformed  by  the 
goitre,  and  occasionally  presenting  the  idiotic  countenance 
of  the  unfortunate  Cretins.  This  continued  until  more  than 
half  the  ascent  was  accomplished,  when  we  reached  the 
auberge,  where  it  was  necessary  to  refresh  the  mules  and 
dismiss  the  char-a-banc. 

At  this  little  inn,  we  found  a  number  of  travellers,  French 
and  English,  who  were,  as  well  as  ourselves,  going  to  the 
Hospice,  and  we  all  took  our  departure  at  the  same  moment, 
mounted  upon  the  mules.  The  size  of  the  party  made  it 
more  agreeable,  and  there  were  some  persons  present,  who 
afforded  not  a  little  merriment  to  the  rest,  particularly  a 


MONT  ST.  BERNARD.  181 

certain  baroness  of  our  acquaintance,  who  never  having 
mounted  a  horse  in  her  life,  was  then  upon  her  first  eques- 
trian expedition;  and  with  one  guide  to  hold  her  on  the 
saddle,  and  another  at  her  bridle  rein,  she  rode  with  all  the 
grace  of — a  sack  of  corn  on  a  voyage  to  the  mill. 

The  part  of  the  route  we  were  then  traversing  was  really 
beautiful  and  very  highly  cultivated; — steep  and  mountain- 
ous always, — but  walled  up  in  a  succession  of  terraces, 
that  at  a  distance  looked  almost  like  stair  steps.  The  pea- 
sants, who,  just  in  this  smiling  spot  appeared  far  happier, 
healthier,  and  superior  in  every  respect  to  those  we  had 
met  with  before,  were  just  gathering  in  a  rich  golden  har- 
vest; and  though  we  were  interested  in  this  appearance  of 
industry  and  comfort,  so  rare  in  these  barren  regions,  it  was 
rather  inconvenient  for  us,  as  the  huge  loads  of  wheat  and 
rye  upon  the  little  donkeys,  who  were  as  effectually  con- 
cealed by  them  as  MacdufFs  army  by  the  forest  boughs  of 
Dunsinane,  interrupted  our  progress  every  moment. 

We  slowly  continued  our  journey  for  one  or  two  leagues, 
when  the  aspect  of  the  mountains  gradually  changed,  and 
at  last  became  awfully  gloomy.  For  several  miles  before 
we  reached  the  Hospice,  a  barren  and  frightful  wilderness 
was  all  in  view.  High  and  enormous  mountains  lifted  their 
craggy  and  peaked  summits,  covered  with  snow,  above  the 
clouds,  and  nearer  their  base,  where  we  were  pursuing  our 
toilsome  and  rugged  pathway,  we  saw  nothing  but  arid 
rocks,  and  occasionally  a  brawling  torrent,  rushing  down 
their  steep  sides  across  the  road.  Not  a  vestige  of  human 
habitation,  or  cultivation  was  in  sight, — not  a  tree  or  a  shrub 
to  be  seen, — not  even  a  tuft  of  the  Rhododendron  or  Alpine 
rose,  which  flourishes  best  among  the  rocks  of  the  high 
Alps. 

Amid  this  scene  of  desolation  our  party  slowly  wandered, 


182  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOUBNAL. 

one  after  another,  and  as  it  was  composed,  altogether,  of 
about  twenty  persons,  with  baggage  mules,  and  a  large 
supply  of  provender,  we  might  have  formed  no  unapt 
representation  of  the  worshippers  of  Mahomet,  going  on  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  tomb  of  the  prophet. 

When  we  arrived  within  half  a  league  of  the  Hospice,  our 
attention  was  drawn  toward  a  small  stone  building,  the  first 
we  had  seen  for  a  long  time,  and  we  were  informed  that  it 
was  one  of  the  hospitals  of  St.  Bernard.  On  looking  into 
it,  the  only  object  within  was  far  from  contributing  to 
soften  the  feeling  of  awe  inspired  by  our  route; — the  dead 
body  of  an  unfortunate  traveller  met  our  startled  view. 
Seated  in  an  attitude  of  listlessness  and  despair,  the  mourn- 
ful appearance  of  this  poor  tenement  of  clay,  whose  spirit 
had  long  since  sought  another  home,  sufficiently  indicated 
the  manner  in  which  he  had  encountered  the  great  de- 
stroyer. The  body  was  in  the  same  dress  and  attitude  in 
which  it  was  discovered  in  the  snow  of  the  wilderness,  and 
placed  in  this  manner  to  be  recognised  by  the  friends  and 
relatives  of  the  deceased. 

Turning  away  from  this  melancholy  spectacle,  which 
effectually  banished  the  few  traces  of  gaiety  left  during  our 
pilgrimage,  we  continued  to  proceed;  passing  still  over 
rocks  and  among  mountains,  through  snow  banks  of  several 
feet  in  depth,  until  we  arrived  at  the  celebrated  Hospice  of 
St.  Bernard. 

Two  huge  dogs  first  welcomed  our  arrival,  followed  by  a 
comely,  well  dressed,  amiable  looking  priest,  who  invited 
us  to  enter  without  any  ceremony,  and  very  kindly  made 
all  the  necessary  arrangements  for  our  accommodation.  It 
was  late  in  the  evening  when  we  arrived,  and  though  the 
first  part  of  the  day  had  been  uncomfortably  warm  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain, — in  this  region  of  eternal  snows,  we 


MONT  ST.  BERNARD.  183 

were  chilled  through.  It  was  really  bitter  cold,  and  all  the 
party  flocked  around  the  fire  as  eagerly  as  we  should  do  in 
the  month  of  December,  for  the  transition  made  it  much 
more  severe. 

Brilliant  anticipations  of  the  luxurious  fare  of  the  monks 
of  the  Hospice  had  been  indulged  and  expressed  by  several 
of  our  travellers,  and  there  was  a  laughable  elongation  of 
faces  among  them,  when  an  apology  was  made  for  the  frugal 
meal  to  which  we  were  conducted,— it  happened  to  be  a 
fast  day.  The  slight  repast  offered  us  was,  indeed,  hardly 
sufficient  for  wearied  travellers,  and  salad  and  dried  prunes 
were  not  exactly  the  sort  of  fare  calculated  to  repel  the 
searching  cold.  We  soon  retired  to  our  allotted  apartments, 
where,  notwithstanding  the  want  of  fire-places,  and  the 
stony  hardness  of  the  beds,  we  managed  to  sleep  profoundly. 

Early  in  the  morning  we  were  roused  by  the  chant  of  the 
priests,  who  were  saying  mass  in  the  church,  which  was 
under  the  same  roof  and  quite  near  our  rooms.  Having 
made  a  hasty  toilette,  we  sallied  out,  and  a  few  steps  led 
us  into  the  midst  of  them.  We  found  it  quite  a  respectable 
church,  and  considering  the  situation,  handsomely  arranged, 
and  apparently  kept  in  the  neatest  order.  The  most  re- 
markable thing  within  it  is  a  fine  marble  monument  to  the 
memory  of  Dessaix,  ornamented  with  several  superb  bas- 
reliefs,  one  of  which  represents  him  in  his  last  moments  at 
the  battle  of  Marengo. 

After  putting  our  contribution  in  the  tronc,  which  is  a 
ceremony  of  some  consequence  in  this  establishment,  where 
entertainment  is  nominally  offered  gratuitously,  we  made 
our  retreat,  and  while  the  rest  of  the  party  visited  the  Morgue 
I  employed  myself  in  making  a  collection  of  the  delicate 
little  flowers  which  grow  in  great  numbers  around  the  lake, 
— for  there  is  a  lake  about  a  hundred  yards  long  in  this  ele- 


184  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

vated  spot,  though  it  is  frozen  nine  months  in  the  year 
These  little  flowers  are  peculiarly  delicate  and  beautiful, 
and  I  found  about  twenty  different  sorts  in  as  many  minutes. 
While  I  waa  occupied  in  putting  them  between  the  leaves 
of  a  guide  du  voyageur,  which  served  for  a  temporary  her- 
barium, the  party,  who  had  finished  their  visit  to  the  Morgue, 
returned  with  dejected  looks  from  this  repository  of  the 
dead.  Within  it  are  always  a  number  of  human  bodies, 
found  in  this  bleak  and  houseless  region,  which  after  having 
undergone  every  means  of  restoration  to  life  without  effect, 
are  placed  in  the  garments  and  attitude  in  which  they  are 
first  discovered  by  the  servants  and  dogs  of  the  Hospice, 
who  are  daily  employed  during  the  winter  in  looking  for 
them.  The  dogs  are  immensely  large,  gentle,  and  very 
sagacious,  and  remarkable  for  the  acuteness  of  their  scent. 
These  qualities  render  them  such  useful  auxiliaries  of  the 
maronniers,  or  men  who  seek  for  the  travellers,  as  instances 
have  sometimes  occurred  when  persons  have  been  restored 
to  life,  after  being  actually  disinterred  by  these  faithful  ani- 
mals from  the  snow  drifts  beneath  which  they  were  buried. 

We  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  waste  our  time  by 
looking  over  the  books  which  are  kept  in  the  principal 
salon  for  the  effusions  of  travellers.  Our  researches  were 
limited  to  the  scrap  of  Madame  de  Stael,  which  has  been 
so  often  criticised  by  tourists,  and  which  seemed  to  us  re- 
markable only  for  being  an  odd  mixture  of  fine  words, 
without  beginning  or  end. 

But  though  we  did  not  trouble  ourselves  to  read  what 
other  people  had  written,  we  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
of  adding  a  little  to  the  nonsense  annually  scribbled  here, 
and  if  any  one  should  ever  take  the  trouble  to  decypher 
my  contribution,  it  will  most  probably  bring  to  mind  the 
droll  exclamation  of  the  good  gentleman  who  left  a  bojk  at 


MONT  ST.  BERNARD.  185 

the  house  on  the  Montanvert,  near  the  Mer  de  Glace,  to 
receive  the  brilliant  thoughts  of  the  visitors  he  supposed 
would  succeed  him.  He  says,  "J'ai  pense  que  les  grandes 
impressions  que  1'on  recoit  ici,  donneraient  de  grandes 
pensees;  que  la  purete  la  legerete  de  1'air  qu'on  y  respire, 
les  ferait  rendre  avec  nettete:  par  suite  j'ai  donne  un  registre 
au  Montanvert,  pour  que  les  voyageurs  y  consignassent 
leurs  reflections.  Je  m'en  repens — ce  que  j'ai  lu, — ce  que 
je  lis  ici,  me  desespere.  On  a  du  bon  sens  quand  on  se 
determine  a  voir  la  vallee  de  Chamouni,  maisje  vois  qu'on 
le  perd  en  y  arrivant."  The  laughable  despair  of  this 
worthy  personage  would  be  perhaps  heightened  if  he  were 
to  see  the  scrap  I  perpetrated,  but  happily  it  will  not  offend 
his  eye,  and  you  have  a  claim  to  it,  as  I  promised  you  all 
my  thoughts  during  the  journey. 

In  distance  seen,  thou  Alpine  height, 

How  soft  thy  azure  tints  appear, 
And  when  in  sun-set's  roseate  light 

How  brightly  pure,  how  calmly  fair! 

Thus  to  the  ravish'd  eye  of  youth 
Appears  the  world  in  colours  bright, 

Eager  he  flies  to  know  the  truth 
And  snatch  the  bliss  that  charms  his  sight. 

Thou  Alpine  height!  how  chang'd  thy  form, 

As  thy  tremendous  base  we  near, 
Thy  awful  peaks  amid  the  storm 

In  dread  sublimity  appear! 

Alas!  poor  youth!  couldst  thou  have  known 

That  world  thou  hast  so  gaily  sought, 
Its  wearying  cares, — its  chilling  frown, — 
And  e'en  its  joys, — how  dearly  bought! 
13 


186  *      FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

Yet  if  in  virtue's  rugged  path, 

To  thee  "  to  overcome"  is  given. 
Receive  the  sacred  staff  of  faith, 

Ascend! — Ascend! — and  mount  to  Heaven! 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  what  gave  rise  to  such  a  com- 
parison at  such  a  moment,  for  it  is  certain  that  none  of  us 
ever  felt  less  disposed  to  quarrel  with  the  world,  than  when 
we  found  ourselves,  as  it  were,  completely  out  of  it. 

With  unusual  alacrity  we  mounted  our  steeds  to  descend 
the  mountain,  and  all  of  us  heartily  agreed  to  the  suggestion 
of  one  of  our  party,  that  "  it  was  really  worth  the  trouble 
of  paying  a  visit  to  the  grand  Mont  St.  Bernard,  for  the 
pleasure  of  getting  away." 


THE  CITE  D'AOST.  187 


THE  CITE  D'AOST. 

DESCENT  ON  THE  ITALIAN  SIDE  OF  THE  ALPS. — ROMAN  ANTiaurriES, 
CASTLES  OP  THE  MIDDLE  AGES. — THE  HAUNTED  TOWER. — PIED- 
MONT.— FORT  DE  BARD. — IVREE. — A  WARNING. — AN  ALPINE 
STORM. — PIVARONE. — THE  CHEVALIER  LEONE. — OCR  HOST'S 
STORY. — THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE. 

THE  descent  of  the  St.  Bernard,  on  the  southern  side, 
resembles  the  ascent  on  the  other  for  some  distance; — 
always  wild  and  savage,  and  for  the  first  three  leagues, 
which  we  were  compelled  to  descend  upon  the  mules,  the 
same  naked  and  barren  rocks,  the  same  huge  mountains, 
appropriately  called  Montagms  Mortes,  destitute  of  trees 
or  human  habitations,  presented  themselves  on  every  side. 

It  was  with  no  small  satisfaction  that  we  reached  the 
little  village  of  St.  Remy,  whence  a  small  char-a-banc  was 
practicable  to  the  Cite  D'Aost,  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain. 
The  descent  from  this  place  was  comparatively  easy, 
though  the  road  runs  during  the  whole  distance  upon  the 
edge  of  a  precipice  so  frightful,  that  it  appears  wonderful 
how  Napoleon  with  his  sixty  thousand  men  and  artillery 
could  have  passed  it  in  safety,  especially  at  that  season  of 
the  year,  for  in  many  parts  of  the  road  we  remarked  poles 
of  twenty  and  thirty  feet  in  height,  planted  to  mark  its 
course  when  buried  in  snow.  A  place  on  the  edge  of  the 
ravine  was  shown  us,  where  the  first  consul's  horse  slip- 
ped, and  he  was  saved  only  by  the  presence  of  a  man  near 


188        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

him,  who  is  still  living  to  boast  of  having  preserved  this 
life,  then  so  precious  to  all  around  him. 

As  we  approached  the  Cite  D'Aost,  our  attention  was 
particularly  attracted  by  the  picturesque  vineyards  in  its 
vicinity.  A  number  of  terraces  are  walled  up  against  the 
side  of  the  mountain,  all  of  which  are  surmounted  with 
columns;  and  the  vines  being  planted  several  feet  behind 
them,  and  trained  on  frames  supported  by  these  columns, 
they  resemble  a  succession  of  porticos,  covered  with  vines. 
Here,  as  well  as  throughout  the  Vallee  D'Aost,  the  pecu- 
liar and  graceful  appearance  of  the  vineyards  cannot  fail  to 
attract  and  refresh  the  eye  of  the  traveller.  In  some  places 
the  vines  are  trained  to  hang  in  rich  festoons,  and  the  fruit 
is  particularly  fine,  as  its  depending  position  affords  it  the 
full  benefit  of  the  sun,  unimpeded  by  the  foliage  above. 

A  few  hours  delay  in  the  Cite"  D'Aost  were  not  unwel- 
come, after  our  adventures  amid  the  mountains,  and  while 
arrangements  for  the  continuation  of  our  journey,  which  we 
left  to  the  good  judgment  of  our  obliging  compagnon  de 
voyage,  were  going  on,  we  took  the  opportunity  of  seeking 
out  some  of  the  antiquities  of  the  town.  These,  notwith- 
standing the  frequent  notice  of  them  by  travellers,  we  found 
"  few  and  far  between,"  but  they  are,  nevertheless,  inter- 
esting. 

Our  attention  was  first  attracted  by  a  fine  old  Roman 
relique,  a  triumphal  arch,  which  is  in  a  wonderful  state  of 
preservation,  considering  that  it  was,  as  is  testified  by 
inscriptions  upon  it,  built  thirty  years  before  the  Christian 
era.  The  Corinthian  capitals,  with  which  it  is  adorned  are 
still  beautiful,  though  the  stone  has,  as  it  were,  melted 
beneath  the  touch  of  time,  until  they  are  half  worn  away. 

The  remains  of  an  amphitheatre  of  immense  magnitude 
were  likewise  pointed  out,  and  these,  with  a  bridge,  and 


THE  CITE  D'AOST.  189 

part  of  the  ancient  walls  of  the  city,  were  all  that  we  saw 
of  Roman  antiquities.  The  most  remarkable  characteristic 
of  these  remnants  of  by-gone  days  is  the  immense  size  of 
the  stones  of  which  they  are  composed,  by  which  the  works 
of  the  ancients  may  always  be  distinguished  from  those  of 
the  middle  ages. 

Among  the  curiosities  of  the  Cite  D'Aost,  the  remains  of 
a  feudal  castle  were  shown  us,  and  one  of  its  ruined  towers 
is  regarded  with  superstitious  awe  by  the  inhabitants,  who 
devoutly  believe  it  to  be  the  abode  of  a  spirit.  The  un- 
happy lady,  who  they  say  appears  nightly  on  its  walls,  was 
starved  to  death  by  a  jealous  husband;  and  the  plaintive  cries 
of  this  poor  famished  ghost,  have  given  to  the  tower  the 
name  of  cris-de-faim,  which  has  been  changed  by  the  rough 
patois  of  the  peasants  into  Bramafam,  by  which  title  it  is 
recognized. 

The  house  of  the  leprous  man,  who  has  been  made  the 
hero  of  a  pretty  little  tale,  was  likewise  displayed,  though 
it  is  much  more  interesting  in  the  romance  than  in  reality. 

While  we  were  examining  these  antiquities,  the  prepara- 
tions for  the  continuation  of  our  journey  were  completed, 
though  we  were  much  disappointed  to  learn  that  one  of  the 
three  queens  of  Sardinia  was  then  on  a  visit  in  this  part  of 
the  country,  and  that  in  anticipation  of  her  return,  all  the 
post  horses  had  been  ordered  into  her  service.  As  it  re- 
quired relays  of  nearly  five  hundred  horses  for  her  majesty 
and  suite,  we  were  obliged  to  forego  the  pleasure  of  travel- 
ling post  from  the  Cite  D'Aost,  and  our  last  resource  was  to 
take  possession  of  the  only  carriage  and  pair  left  in  the 
town,  and  which,  as  may  be  supposed,  afforded  rather  a 
blank  prospect  for  either  comfort  or  speed. 

We  were,  however,  consoled  for  the  slowness  of  our  pro- 
gress by  the  beauty  of  the  scenery  in  the  Vallee  D'Aost, 


190        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

enlivened  as  it  is  by  the  rapid  and  romantic  Doria,  which 
winds  its  way  through  every  variety  of  cultivated  fields,  and 
woods  almost  deserving  the  name  of  forests.  You  may 
well  imagine  that  the  contrast  of  all  these  with  the  arid  and 
frightful  desert  we  had  so  recently  left,  enhanced  their 
charms  in  our  eyes. 

This  beautiful  valley  must  doubtless  be  rich  in  "  legend- 
ary lore,"  for  at  the  base  of  the  mountains,  on  picturesque 
heights  throughout  its  whole  length,  are  a  number  of  fine 
old  castles,  with  all  their  accompaniments  of  walls,  and 
towers,  and  loop-holes,  and  donjon  keeps,  and  battlements. 
We  were  told  that  none  of  them  were  inhabited,  and  that 
the  fertile  fields,  over  which  they  domineered,  were  all  the 
property  of  a  certain  countess,  some  relative  of  the  existing 
royal  family.  The  romance,  however,  if  there  was  any, 
must  have  been  confined  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  castles, 
who  were  probably  as  far  elevated  above  the  people  in  the 
plain  in  personal  advantages  and  education,  as  their  tower- 
ing habitations  were  superior  to  the  wretched  huts  of  the 
peasants  below.  It  would  be  impossible  to  exaggerate  the 
miserable  appearance  of  these  poor  creatures,  for  hardly  one 
of  those  we  met  among  them  presented  the  ordinary  propor- 
tions of  humanity.  In  some  of  them,  the  goitre  was  fright- 
fully conspicuous,  in  others  the  features  and  limbs  distorted, 
and  frequently  the  countenance  denoting  perfect  idiocy. 
Even  the  children  that  we  saw  seemed  to  have  inherited  the 
misfortunes  of  their  unhappy  parents. 

The  most  interesting  object  in  our  second  day's  ride 
through  this  valley  was  the  Fort  de  Bard,  which  being  built 
on  a  high  promontory  of  rock,  projecting  from  the  enormous 
mountain  on  one  side,  leaves  barely  room  for  the  river  to 
pass  between  it  and  the  opposing  mountain  on  the  other 
side.  The  road  runs  through  the  principal  street  in  the 


THE  VALLE£  D'AOST.  191 

small  town,  the  houses  of  which  on  one  side  are  built  against 
the  mountain,  and  the  other  against  the  rock  on  which  stands 
the  fort;  and  in  many  places  there  are  bridges  which  pass 
from  the  top  of  the  houses  in  the  town  to  the  fort.  It  there- 
fore excites  no  little  surprise,  and  requires  no  small  effort 
of  the  imagination  to  conceive  how  Napoleon  could  have 
passed  his  artillery  through  this  difficult  and  dangerous 
defile,  then  defended  by  the  Austrians,  who  had  given 
solemn  assurance  that  such  an  impossibility  could  not,  and 
should  never  be  achieved.  It  is  a  sufficient  monument  in 
itself  of  the  talent,  courage  and  perseverance  of  this  wonder- 
ful man. 

We  stopped  at  the  town  of  Ivree  at  the  termination  of  the 
Vallee  D'Aost,  in  the  hope  again  of  being  able  to  procure 
post-horses;  but  the  same  reason  still  existed  why  we  could 
not  have  them,  and  we  were  obliged  again  to  engage  our 
old  voiturier  with  his  poor  jaded  horses.  While  we  were 
waiting  for  them  to  take  a  little  refreshment,  a  lady,  appa- 
rently of  some  rank  and  consequence,  having  stopped  at  the 
same  house,  and  breakfasted  in  the  same  room  with  us, 
entered  into  conversation,  and  talking  volubly  on  many  sub- 
jects, told  us  that  she  lived  very  near.  She  described  her 
country  as  one  of  peculiar  loveliness,  (to  which  we  willing- 
ly added  our  testimony,)  and  bewailed  the  miserable  condi- 
tion of  its  population,  which  she  said  were  as  unprincipled 
and  vicious,  as  they  were  hideous  and  deformed;  that  their 
characters  were  in  exact  accordance  with  their  appearance. 
The  ideas  of  robbery  and  murder,  if  they  had  never  entered 
my  head  before,  might  have  intruded  themselves  after  her 
account,  which  was  expressed  in  the  glowing  style  of  her 
country.  Seeing  us  preparing  to  depart,  she  advised  us 
strongly,  if  we  had  any  regard  for  our  safety  or  comfort,  to 
take  warning  by  the  clouds  that  were  hovering  over  the 


192  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

river,  and  the  muttered  threats  of  the  distant  thunder,  and 
to  postpone  our  departure  a  few  hours,  telling  us  that  the 
storms  in  that  part  of  Piedmont  were  extremely  violent,  and 
that  we  might  probably  repent  of  our  experiment  when  it 
was  too  late.  We,  however,  paid  but  little  attention  to  her 
suggestions,  and  continued  our  journey. 

When  we  had  proceeded  a  few  leagues,  the  heavens 
became  darker  and  darker  until  everything  was  involved  in 
a  portentous  gloom:  the  wind  blew  in  fitful  gusts,  and  every- 
thing announced  the  approach  of  the  tempest,  which  at 
length  broke  forth  with  unparalleled  fury.  For  two  hours 
and  a  half  it  raged  with  unremitting  violence.  The  sharp 
and  vivid  flashes  of  lightning  came  in  quick  succession, 
followed  by  the  deafening  roar  of  the  thunder,  and  the  rain, 
mingled  with  a  "  pelting,  pitiless"  hail,  poured  like  a  deluge. 
The  road  was  soon  flooded  with  water  in  such  a  manner 
that  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  it,  and  the  little  rivulets 
that  crossed  it  at  intervals  were  swollen  to  torrents. 

Notwithstanding  these  difficulties,  we  continued  to  pro- 
ceed, hoping  to  reach  a  place  of  shelter,  until  a  tree,  felled 
by  the  wind  across  the  road,  impeded  our  progress.  A  man, 
who  happened  to  be  running  in  the  same  direction,  with  an 
axe  in  his  hand,  aided  the  coachman  in  taking  it  out  of  the 
way,  as  the  smaller  branches  only,  of  the  tree,  were  lying 
in  the  road,  and  told  us  that  a  quarter  of  an  hour  more  would 
bring  us  to  the  village  to  which  he  was  hastening. 

Just  as  we  came  in  view  of  the  wished  for  village,  and  as 
the  alarmed  coachman  was  considering  the  aspect  of  a  tor- 
rent which  impeded  his  progress,  a  large  tree  fell  imme- 
diately before  the  horses'  heads,  while  another  came  down 
with  a  crash  behind,  and  thus  left  us  almost  in  the  bed  of  a 
roaring  flood,  increasing  every  instant.  At  this  new  obstacle, 
the  poor  old  coachman,  who  had  been  gradually  losing  the 


PIVARONE.  193 

few  ideas  he  possessed,  "completely  lost  all  presence  of 
mind,  and  letting  the  reins  fall  in  an  agony  of  despair,  he 
jumped  from  his  seat,  and  with  his  hands  clasped,  and  up- 
turned eyes,  began  an  "  ave  Maria." 

It  was  not  to  the  influence  of  Latin  prayers  that  I  attributed 
the  merciful  interposition  of  that  divine  hand  which  watched 
over  and  protected  us  during  this  scene  of  peril;  but  it  was 
by  that  Providence  that  we  were  forcibly,  as  it  were, 
detained  just  in  the  spot  where  we  had  been  blocked  up, 
for  it  was  comparatively  sheltered,  and  there  we  were  com- 
pelled to  remain  until  the  subsiding  rain  permitted  some  of 
the  villagers  to  see  us.  In  the  course  of  half  an  hour  the 
torrent,  which  had  been  chiefly  formed  by  the  deluge  of 
rain  during  the  storm,  began  to  diminish.  As  it  subsided, 
the  villagers  flocked  out,  and,  provided  with  poles  to  feel  their 
way,  several  of  them  undertook  to  come  to  our  assistance. 
The  tree  was  soon  cut  out  of  the  way,  and  with  the  aid  of 
a  coachman,  who  appeared  to  have  rather  more  skill  and 
presence  of  mind  than  our  own,  we  passed  the  torrent,  and 
arrived  in  a  few  minutes  in  the  village,  with  which  we  had 
been  so  long  tantalized. 

A  respectable  looking  old  man  with  a  bottle  of  wine  in 
his  hand,  came  to  the  carriage,  and  insisted  on  our  partak- 
ing of  it  as  an  antidote  to  the  cold  and  wet,  and  his  cordial 
manner,  in  addition  to  the  disinterestedness  of  the  men  who 
had  aided  us  to  reach  the  village,  and  who  positively  refused 
to  receive  any  compensation  for  the  valuable  service  they 
had  rendered  us,  convinced  us  that  our  acquaintance  at  the 
inn  knew  but  little  of  the  characters  of  those  people  she 
despised  and  feared.  It  effectually  proved  the  justice  of 
the  old  rule  to  "  believe  only  half  what  we  hear,"  for  though 
her  account  of  the  storm  was  fully  verified,  she  was  certainly 
not  correct  in  her  judgment  of  the  characters  of  her  conn' 


194        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

trymen.  We  may,  however,  say  in  her  justification,  that 
we  had  observed  a  marked  difference  in  the  country  as  well 
as  the  population,  from  the  time  we  emerged  from  the 
Vallee  D'Aost,  and  her  account  was  perhaps  not  intended  to 
apply  to  the  village  of  Pivarone,  in  which  we  then  were. 

A  slight  examination  of  the  only  inn  in  the  village,  which 
presented  an  aspect  of  woful  desolation  and  discomfort, 
together  with  the  kind  and  cordial  manner  of  the  old  gentle- 
man, who  had  accosted  us  while  in  the  carriage,  and  still 
remained  near  us,  induced  us  to  accept  his  hospitable  offer 
of  receiving  us  for  the  night. 

"  My  house  is  but  a  poor  one,"  he  said,  "  but  you  will 
have,  at  least,  a  shelter  from  the  storm,  and  a  kind  and  hearty 
welcome." 

Without  farther  hesitation,  we  followed  him  to  his  house, 
though  in  the  first  glance,  there  was  little  else  than  his  frank 
welcome  to  recommend  it. 

A  fat  rosy  little  woman,  whom  he  introduced  as  his  wife, 
though  her  juvenile  appearance  would  have  announced  her 
to  be  his  daughter,  took  me  by  the  hand  at  the  door,  and 
led  me  to  a  seat  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  where  we  entered, 
and  the  appearance  of  which  was  so  very  extraordinary, 
that  a  slight  sketch  of  it  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  you. 

There  was  just  light  enough  in  the  apartment  to  render 
"darkness  visible,"  and  it  was  with  some  difficulty  that  we 
groped  our  way  to  our  allotted  seats,  over  the  rough, 
unpaved  floor,  unpaved  even  with  bricks  or  stones,  for  it 
was  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  naked  earth,  beaten  into 
a  hard  and  uneven  surface.  Upon  this  floor  were  gambol- 
ling whole  nests  of  kittens  and  cats,  dogs  and  puppies,  and 
little  children,  who  appeared  to  be  the  best  friends  in  the 
world.  Two  or  three  stout  young  men  were  walking  about 
the  room,  and  a  delicate  and  rather  pretty  looking  woman, 


THE  CHEVALIER  LEONE.  195 

who  was  called  a  sister-in-law  of  the  family,  was  seated 
upon  a  sort  of  sofa,  with  a  fan  and  snuff-box,  evidently 
playing  the  fine  lady.  The  man,  who  had  conducted  us 
over  the  torrent,  was  in  attendance  behind  her  chair,  and  as 
we  learned,  was  her  servant.  Two  young  Catholic  priests, 
in  '  their  black  gowns,  were  likewise  present,  and  from 
their  ease  and  familiarity,  we  soon  judged  formed  part 
of  the  family.  A  good-natured,  slip-shod  woman  servant, 
who  appeared  to  be  the  only  domestic  of  the  house, 
flourished  about,  laughing  and  talking  at  the  highest  pitch 
of  her  voice,  and  apparently  giving  as  many  orders  to  her 
mistress,  as  she  received  from  her. 

All  these  things  we  saw  by  the  light  of  two  or  three 
tallow  candles,  which  were  soon  brought  in,  for  it  was  quite 
too  dark  before,  to  form  any  opinion  of  these  good  people. 

A  long  consultation  between  the  mistress  and  the  maid, 
ended  in  a  proposition  to  conduct  us  up  stairs,  where  we 
had  the  promise  of  private  rooms  for  a  dry  toilette,  of  which 
we  all  stood  in  need  after  our  exposure  to  the  storm,  and 
we  were  preceded  with  much  ceremony  up  a  sort  of  ladder 
which  served  for  a  stairway.  This  appeared  the  more 
strange,  as  there  was  an  ample  stairway  of  stone  leading 
nearly  in  the  same  direction,  and  landing  in  the  same  pas- 
sage where  our  ladder  terminated;  but  for  some  reason,  best 
known  to  themselves,  they  had  preferred  the  ladder.  When 
we  at  length  arrived  on  the  second  floor,  we  were  not  a 
little  surprised  at  being  conducted  quite  in  state  from  one 
room  to  another,  until  we  had  passed  through  five  large 
apartments,  high  pitched  and  airy,  with  vaulted  ceilings, 
and  enormous  windows  and  doors.  The  furniture  of  one 
of  these  rooms  bore  marks  of  former  grandeur,  for  the  walls 
were  tapestried  with  crimson  damask,  and  the  bed  curtains 
were  of  the  same  rich  material,  while  on  the  cornice  above, 


196  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

still  waved  the  white  plumes  that  are  seen  in  the  chambers 
of  princes.  The  walls  of  all  these  apartments  were  hung 
with  old  fashioned  paintings,  and  coats  of  arms  and  heraldic 
devices  were  pointed  out  with  no  little  pride  by  the  master 
of  the  house,  who  now  announced  himself  as  the  chevalier 
Leone,  and  who  led  the  way  through  the  rooms,  though 
every  step  was  accompanied  with  an  apology  for  having 
nothing  better  to  offer. 

We  had  hardly  time  to  make  the  desired  change  in  our 
garments,  and  to  assemble  our  little  group  around  a  blazing 
fire  in  one  of  the  chambers,  when  all  the  family,  one  after 
another,  the  priests  among  the  rest,  flocked  into  the  room, 
where  they  all  sat  until  supper  was  announced.  We  then 
descended  to  the  supper  room,  which  we  found  to  be 
the  same  we  had  first  entered.  The  ample  board  was 
spread  with  excellent  fare, — fish,  flesh  and  fowl,  vegetables 
and  fruit,  cakes  and  compotes,  and  all  manner  of  ct  ceterus, 
were  accompanied  with  a  variety  of  excellent  wines,  which 
all  the  company  appeared  to  find  to  their  taste,  particularly 
the  two  young  priests,  who  swallowed  glass  after  glass  of 
the  sparkling  Malvoisie,  until  one  of  them  appeared  to  be 
considerably  inspired,  and  began  in  a  sort  of  improvisatore 
strain,  to  relate  stories,  much  to  the  amusement  of  the  com- 
pany. 

We  could  not  enter  into  the  merit  of  his  tales,  not  at  all 
understanding  the  barbarous  patois,  and  but  imperfectly  th*e 
soft  and  flowing  Italian,  in  which  he  alternately  spoke,  but 
they  seemed  highly  diverting  to  the  family,  particularly  the 
maid  servant,  who  stood  behind  him,  giving  him  an  occa- 
sional slap  on  the  shoulder,  or  a  playful  and  encouraging 
pull  by  the  ear,  as  she  found  the  story  amusing  and  agreeable. 

Our  excellent  host  was  too  polite  long  to  permit  any  di- 
version to  the  members  of  his  own  family,  in  which  his 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  197 

guests  could  not  participate.  He  gently  withdrew  their 
attention  from  the  improvisatore  stories  of  the  young  priest, 
and  related  some  of  his  own  adventures  during  the  early 
part  of  his  life,  which  soon  absorbed  the  attention  of  his 
hearers.  The  flower  of  his  youth,  he  told  us,  was  spent 
in  the  army,  and  several  years  in  the  service  of  Napoleon. 
During  this  period  of  his  eventful  history,  he  had  been 
taken  prisoner  by  the  Austrians,  and  eighteen  long  and 
weary  years  of  captivity  had  been  his  hard  lot.  In  addition 
to  the  outlines  of  his  own  history,  he  gave  us  a  more  de- 
tailed account  of  that  of  a  young  officer  of  Napoleon's  army, 
which  was  so  full  of  romantic  interest,  that  though  I  may 
run  some  risk  of  mistakes  in  repeating  it,  asl  cannot  under- 
take to  give  it  in  the  patois  French  of  our  host,  I  must  still 
ask  permission  to  translate  for  you  in  my  own  way. 

THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE. 

The  eighteenth  century  had  just  terminated  its  dark  and 
stormy  career,  and  a  new  era,  illuminated  by  the  "  rising 
sun  of  Napoleon,"  began  to  dawn  on  the  world.  Already 
had  that  genius  and  valour  been  displayed,  which  had 
awakened  the  enthusiasm  of  his  own  nation,  and  had  not 
only  aroused  the  jealousies  of  all  Europe,  but  even  the 
haughtiness  of  Oriental  Rulers  had  been  humbled  before 
him,  and  the  mysterious  and  stately  monuments  of  Egyp- 
tian pride  had  witnessed  the  terror  of  his  arms.  The  sud- 
den return  of  the  conqueror  from  his  campaign  in  the  east, 
though  unexpected,  as  undesired,  by  the  Directoire  Fran- 
pai's,  was  hailed  with  apparent  enthusiasm  by  all  classes  of 
la  grande  nation,  and  the  peals  of  the  merry  bells,  the 
brilliancy  of  the  fire  works  and  illuminations,  the  splendour 
of  ihe  fetes  that  awaited  his  appearance  in  the  metropolis, 


198  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

bore  testimony  to  the  delirium  of  joy  that  agitated  the  pub- 
lic mind.  But  though  again,  after  a  long  and  perilous  cam- 
paign, restored  to  his  home  and  friends,  an  innate  contempt 
of  the  forms  of  fashionable  society,  united  to  a  deep  and 
settled  policy,  often  deprived  the  brilliant  circles  of  the  capi- 
tal of  their  eagerly  expected  guest.  Absorbed,  apparently, 
in  literary  or  scientific  pursuits,  the  gay  throng  in  vain 
awaited  his  arrival  at  the  theatre,  the  salon,  or  the  ball 
room.  He  came  not, — nor  was  any  apology  or  explanation 
offered  to  justify  his  absence.  At  this  period  it  may  be 
easily  imagined  that  the  amiable  Josephine  was  the  cyno- 
sure of  all  eyes.  Though  already  anticipating  the  splendid 
destiny,  which  a  mysterious  prophecy  had,  in  her  youth, 
partly  revealed  to  her,  no  pride  or  hauteur  was  ever  awa- 
kened by  it  in  her  gentle  heart; — and,  followed,  admired, 
caressed,  beloved  by  all,  she  received  the  homage  which 
her  august  partner  so  unceremoniously  declined.  To  the 
charm  of  a  kind  and  affable  deportment,  was  added  the  at- 
traction of  taste,  elegance  and  luxury,  and  the  salons  of  the 
future  empress  were,  even  at  that  time,  thronged  with  the 
elite  of  the  gay,  the  literary,  and  the  fashionable  world. 

It  was  at  one  of  these  receptions,  more  than  usually  bril- 
liant and  crowded,  that  two  young  officers,  who  had  made 
their  easy  and  graceful  entre  exchanged  compliments  with 
their  numerous  acquaintance  throughout  the  rooms.  They 
then  retreated  behind  a  group  of  savans,  assembled  around 
a  collection  of  rich  and  curious  specimens  of  oriental  art, 
and  antiques  that  defied  even  the  experienced  eye  of  Volney, 
and  the  criticism  of  the  accomplished  daughter  of  Neckar, 
apparently  with  the  design  of  conversing  together,  without 
the  restraint  which  a  large  and  splendid  circle  necessarily 
imposed. 

"  Thou  art  apparently  a  favourite  here,  de   Beaufort," 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  199 

said  one  of  these  young  gallants  to  his  companion,  who 
seemed  somewhat  his  senior  in  years  as  well  as  rank,  and 
whose  frank  and  manly  bearing  accorded  well  with  his  fine 
person  and  military  dress. 

"  If  I  am  indeed  so  fortunate,  Alphonse,"  he  replied 
with  a  smile,  "  it  is  a  happiness  easily  attained,  and  one 
which  I  am  persuaded  will  sooner  or  later  be  the  lot  of 
my  young  friend.  It  is  only  necessary  to  sacrifice  in 
some  degree  that  delicate  brilliancy  of  complexion,  which 
is  indeed  too  effeminate  for  our  bold  calling; — with  a 
trusty  toledo  in  the  land  of  the  Moslem,  to  return  resolutely 
the  blows  dealt  by  the  yataghan  of  the  Mameluke,  and 
to  receive,  in  the  stead  of  a  superior  officer,  such  a  mark  of 
courtesy  as  this." — As  he  spoke,  he  passed  his  hand 
slightly  through  the  dark  locks  that  clustered  around  his 
noble  forehead,  (which  still  retained  its  original  fairness, 
though  the  rest  of  his  handsome  features  had  received  a 
tinge  from  a  warmer  sun  than  that  which  lightens  the  skies 
of  "  la  belle  France")  and  revealed  on  the  temple  a  small 
but  deep  scar.  "  Did  it  not  savour  too  much  of  boast- 
ing," he  continued,  "  I  might  recommend  to  your  notice, 
too,  the  crooked  blade  which  bestowed  the  favour  on  me, 
and  which  is  now  passing  from  hand  to  hand,  among  these 
savans  near  us,  who  seem  to  have  forgotten  the  levity 
with  which  they  were  treated  among  the  pyramids,  when, 
as  soon  as  an  attack  was  threatened,  the  exclamation  was, 
'  Put  the  asses  and  the  savans  in  the  middle.'  But  let 
us  turn  to  a  more  congenial  theme,"  he  added  gaily,  "  I 
have  a  thousand  questions  to  ask  about  old  friends  and" — 

"  And  young  ones,  doubtless,  also,"  said  his  youthful 
companion,  laughing  as  he  finished  the  sentence  for  him. 
"  The  Egyptian  campaign  cannot  surely  have  banished  the 
recollection  of  the  beautiful  Estelle" — A  slight  glance  of  re- 


200        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

proachful  warning  was  the  only  reply  of  de  Beaufort  to  his 
volatile  companion,  for  at  this  instant  a  newly  arrived  group 
appeared  in  the  apartment,  and  the  two  young  friends  joined 
the  throng,  who  pressed  forward  to  offer  the  homage  of 
their  respect  to  the  persons  of  whom  this  group  was  com- 
posed. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a  greater  contrast  than 
these  persons  presented.  A  tall  and  gaunt,  yet  stately  look- 
ing man,  on  whose  head  had  already  descended  the  snows 
of  age,  and  whose  rigid  features  and  heavy  brow  betokened 
rather  more  than  the  firmness  they  usually  indicate,  ad- 
vanced into  the  apartment,  and  on  his  bony  arm  gently 
reposed  that  of  a  young  girl,  whose  loveliness  and  grace 
might  well  claim  for  her  the  title  so  recently  bestowed  on 
her  by  Alphonse  de  Montalais,  of  "the  beautiful  Estelle." 
It  was  not,  however,  the  rare  union  of  a  complexion  of 
almost  dazzling  fairness  with  the  soft  dark  eyes  of  a 
warmer  clime,  the  exquisitely  moulded  features,  the  "ver- 
meil tinctured  lip,  and  tresses  like  the  morn,"  and  the  sym- 
metrical loveliness  of  her  person,  that  imparted  to  Estelle 
St.  Helene  the  charm  which  all  who  approached  her  felt 
and  acknowledged.  It  was  to  the  pure  and  gentle  heart, 
and  the  richly  cultivated  mind,  which  beamed  through  her 
eyes,  and  heightened  the  loveliness  of  her  varying  cheek 
with  every  changing  thought,  that  the  fascination  might 
rather  be  attributed.  To  the  "rose  of  England,"  which 
she  inherited  from  her  mother,  had  been  added,  both  by 
nature  and  education,  those  solid  virtues  and  attainments, 
which,  when  united  to  the  brilliant  graces  of  the  French 
capital,  are  always  irresistible. 

Close  in  attendance  upon  this  singularly  contrasted  pair, 
and  apparently  an  attache  to  their  party,  came  a  young 
man,  whose  face  and  mien  were  almost  as  remarkable  as 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  201 

those  of  the  two  personages  who  immediately  preceded  him. 
His  bearing  and  address  denoted  gentle  birth  and  breeding, 
yet  his  person  was  ungainly;  his  smile  resembled  rather  the 
sneer  of  the  "  Corsair"  than  that  of  the  carpet  knight;  and 
there  was  something  in  the  glance  of  his  piercing  eye  that 
startled  while  it  riveted  the  attention  of  the  observer. 
There  was  a  degree  of  watchful  jealousy  in  the  attentions 
he  from  time  to  time  bestowed  upon  the  fair  Estelle,  which 
seemed  to  be  a  source  of  as  much  annoyance  to  her,  as  of 
complacent  approbation  on  the  part  of  her  stern  companion. 
The  trio  made  their  progress  through  the  apartments,  inter- 
rupted at  every  step  by  the  homage  of  the  large  and  brilliant 
assembly,  and  at  length  approached  the  group  behind 
which  de  Beaufort  and  his  friend  had  retreated  before  they 
were  withdrawn  by  this  new  attraction. 

The  sabre  which  he  had  commended  to  the  notice  of  de 
Montalais  was  now  in  the  hands  of  a  virtuoso,  who  was  so 
intent  on  the  examination  of  its  embossed  and  jewelled 
handle,  that  he  forgot  the  position  of  the  crooked  blade,  and 
by  a  slight  movement  of  his  hand,  the  keen  edge  came  in 
contact  with  the  fair  arm  of  the  youthful  beauty,  who  was 
standing  near,  unconscious  of  her  danger.  The  exclama- 
tions of  surprise  and  terror  that  echoed  round  first  awa- 
kened the  virtuoso  to  a  sense  of  the  mischief  he  had  perpe- 
trated, and  in  despair  at  the  discovery,  he  expressed  a 
thousand  regrets;  but  the  care  with  which  the  extent  of  the 
injury  was  instantly  concealed  by  the  thick  folds  of  a  cache- 
mire,  and  the  gentle  smile  which  responded  to  his  voluble 
apologies,  assured  him,  more  than  words  could  have  done, 
that  he  was  forgiven.  De  Beaufort,  who  saw  the  move- 
ment, and  sprang  forward  to  arrest  the  hand  of  the  luckless 
virtuoso,  removed  the  weapon  to  a  more  secure  place, — but, 
lingering  for  an  instant  under  this  pretext,  he  found  an  op- 
II 


202  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

portunity  of  saying,  in  a  tone  so  low  that  none  but  the 
most  acute  observer  could  have  divined  the  import  of  his 
words,  "  Is  it  an  omen  of  good  or  of  evil,  that  what  hath 
been  aimed  at  the  heart  of  de  Beaufort,  should  also  have 
wounded  Estelle?"  Softly  as  these  words  were  uttered, 
they  were  caught  by  the  listening  ear  of  the  watchful 
attache,  though  they  were  noticed  only  by  a  basilisk  side- 
glance;  but  the  deep  blush,  which  suffused  the  cheek  of  the 
lovely  being  to  whom  they  were  addressed,  and  the  down- 
cast expression  of  her  starry  eyes,  told  him  that  neither  the 
words  nor  the  half  suppressed  sigh,  which  accompanied 
them,  had  been  unheard  by  her. 

The  accident,  which  had  occurred,  afforded  her  haughty 
protector  an  excuse  for  abridging  a  visit  seemingly  made 
with  reluctance,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  after  their  en- 
trance, they  were  sought  for  in  vain, — they  had  left  the 
brilliant  scene. 

"  Beautiful  as  ever,  and  gentle  as  beautiful!"  exclaimed 
de  Beaufort,  as  he  threw  himself  on  the  coach  seat  by  the 
side  of  his  youthful  companion,  after  giving  the  brief  order 
of  "  k  1'hotel,"  to  his  domestics. 

"  And  lovely  in  character  as  in  person,"  added  de  Mon- 
talais,  as  if  continuing  the  train  of  thought  awakened  in 
the  mind  of  his  friend.  "It  were  surely  a  deed  of  noble 
daring  to  rescue  this  angelic  being  from  the  iron  grasp  of 
such  a  guardian  as  the  old  Comte  Grimaldi,  and  an  action 
yet  more  meritorious  to  redeem  her  from  the  frightful  thral- 
dom with  which  she  is  threatened  in  falling  into  the  clutches 
of  his  detestable  nephew.  I  marvel,  that  she  withers  not 
beneath  the  glance  of  d'Arnauld,  as  a  rose  of  our  fair  clime 
would  perish  in  the  scorching  rays  of  an  Egyptain  sun. 
But  women,  even  the  loveliest  and  the  best,  have  their 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  203 

caprices,  and  the  world  says,  that  the  fair  Estelle  is  ere  long 
to  become  the  bride  of  d'Arnauld." 

"  Estelle  St.  Helene  the  bride  of  d'Arnauld !"  repeated 
de  Beaufort,  who  had  been  roused  by  the  last  words  of  his 
companion  from  the  deep  reverie  into  which  he  had  fallen. 
"  Never,  Alphonso!  never!"  he  added  yet  more  energetically. 
"  They  may  force  her  into  a  convent  as  the  only  asylum 
where  she  can  be  secure  from  their  persecution, — they  may 
rob  her  of  the  fair  heritage  left  her  by  her  noble  father,— 
but  orphan,  and  unprotected  as  she  is,  save  by  those  whose 
courtesies  are  to  her  what  the  breath  of  the  simoom  is  to 
the  traveller  in  the  eastern  desert,  she  has  received  an 
inheritance  more  precious  than  the  world's  gold,  in  a  spirit 
that  would  never  brook  such  an  indignity,  or  could  not  sur- 
vive it.  No! — The  hand  of  Estelle  will  never  be  bestowed 
on  mortal  man  unaccompanied  by  her  heart."  De  Mon- 
talais  shook  his  head  and  smiled. 

"  Miracles  as  great,"  he  said,  "  have  been  wrought  by 

hands  less  skilful,  and  hearts  less  daring." He  was 

interrupted  by  his  friend,  who  suddenly  grasped  his  arm, 
while  the  flashing  light  of  a  lamp  that  streamed  for  an 
instant  through  the  coach  window,  betrayed  the  emotion 
which  agitated  his  fine  features. 

"  Forgive  me,  Alphonse,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  if  I  have 
interrupted  you  rather  rudely.  This  is  a  theme  on  which 
the  slightest  approach  to  levity  offends  my  ear  and  wounds 
my  heart.  You  have  often  reproached  me  with  the  mys- 
terious concealment  which  marks  all  my  communications 
on  this  subject,  nor  do  I  feel  assured  that  I  am  right  in 
speaking  with  less  reserve  at  present;  yet,  from  a  friend  so 
kind  and  so  discreet,  I  can  withhold  nothing.  Know  then, 
that  the  troth  of  Estelle  St.  Helene  has  long  since  been 
plighted  to  me,  and  that  her  father's  blessing  sealed  the 


£04  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

precious  gift.  My  brain  would  turn  if  I  were  to  attempt  a 
relation  of  all  the  circumstances  which  have  led  to  our  pre- 
sent estrangement.  The  machinations  and  artifices,  which 
have  been  employed  for  this  purpose,  have  taxed  to  the 
utmost  the  iron  inflexibility  of  Grimaldi,  and  the  subtle 
ingenuity  of  d'Arnauld.  Yet  I  fear  them  not, — and  were  I 
convinced  that  the  heart  of  Estelle  is  still  mine,  no  human 
malice,  no  earthly  power  should  snatch  her  from  me." 

"  If  there  is  aught  in  the  testimony  of  '  a  thousand  blush- 
ing apparitions'  that  flitted  over  her  fair  face  as  her  eye 
encountered  yours,"  said  de  Montalais,  who  had  lislened 
with  the  deepest  interest  to  the  communication  of  his  friend, 
"  you  would  be  unjust  to  doubt  it.  But  why,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  do  you  not  immediately  resolve  these  doubts  by 
explanations  that  could  not  fail  to  be  satisfactory?  It  would 
be  difficult  to  persuade  me  that  the  eloquence  of  Eugene 
de  Beaufort  could  fail  in  such  a  cause." 

"  Briefly,"  replied  de  Beaufort,  "  because  it  is  impossible. 
To-morrow's  sun  will  find  me  on  my  way  to  the  Rhine, 
and  though  1  have,  at  present,  the  prospect  of  a  speedy 
return  to  the  metropolis,  I  know  not  what  work  may  be 
carved  out  for  me  when  once  there,  though  at  present  my 
purpose  is  merely  to  deliver  the  communications  with 
which  I  am  charged,  and  which  could  not  have  been  en- 
trusted to  other  hands." 

«'  True,"  said  de  Montalais,  musing,  "  our  rude  trade 
affords  but  small  leisure  for  softer  and  more  pleasing  occu- 
pations— yet  perchance,  a  letter" — 

"  In  vain,"  interrupted  de  Beaufort  hastily, — "  I  know 
too  well  from  sad  experience,  the  sleepless  vigilance  that 
bars  all  access  to  so  unwelcome  a  messenger.  I  must  bear 
ray  present  griefs  as  I  may,  until  my  return,  which  I  trust 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  205 

will  not  long  be  delayed;  and  then  my  destiny  for  good  or 
ill  shall  be  determined,  whatever  it  may  cost  me." 

They  passed,  as  he  uttered  these  words,  through  the 
porte-cochere  of  de  Beaufort's  hotel,  and  after  exchanging 
affectionate  adieus,  the  two  friends  separated  for  the  night. 


In  one  of  the  finest  of  the  ancient  hotels  of  "  Le  Noble 
Faubourg,"  a  suite  of  apartments  had  been  thrown  open  as 
if  for  the  reception  of  visitors.  The  rich  gilding  of  the 
vaulted  ceilings,  the  size  and  magnificence  of  the  mirrors 
that  covered  the  walls,  save  where  rich  specimens  of  Italian 
art  occupied  a  portion  of  the  space;  the  draperies  of  crimson 
velvet  with  their  deep  fringes  of  gold,  and  above  all  the  costly 
luxury  of  the  superb  carpeting  and  tapestry  of  the  finest 
Gobelin  work,  displayed  the  luxurious  taste  of  the  possessor 
of  the  mansion.  The  evening  had  closed  in,  and  the  rich 
lustres  and  or  moulu  candelabras  threw  their  brilliant  light 
around, — but  the  splendid  apartments  were  still  unoccupied. 
At  length,  a  light  step  approached,  and  the  fairy  form  of  Es- 
telle  St.  Helene  was  reflected  again  and  again  by  the  bril- 
liant mirrors  around  her. 

With  a  slow  and  uncertain  step,  she  passed  through  the 
gorgeous  suite  of  rooms,  and  paused  not  until  she  reached 
a  small  apartment  at  the  extremity.  Bestowing  a  slight 
glance  on  the  delicate  tapestry  of  folds  of  white  satin  that 
draped  the  walls,  and  the  exquisite  gems  of  art,  both  in 
painting  and  statuary,  with  which  it  was  adorned,  she  ap- 
proached the  mosaic  table,  surmounted  by  a  Sevres  vase  of 
the  rarest  workmanship,  filled  with  exotic  llowers,  which, 
even  more  tJfan  the  softened  moonlight  lustre  shed  through 
vases  of  alabaster,  marked  the  boudoir.  She  selected  from 
among  them  a  half  blown  rose,  in  which  the  faint  tinge 
rivalled  her  own  pure  cheek,  and  for  some  moments  ap- 


206  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

peared  absorbed  in  thought  as  her  downcast  eyes  rested 
upon  it. 

"  Sweet  rose  of  Provense!"  at  length  she  exclaimed,  as 
a  tear  fell  through  her  long  silken  lashes.  "  How  little 
did  I  dream,  when  last  I  placed  thy  dewy  blossoms  in  my 
hair,  that  when  next  I  saw  them,  they  would  be  moistened 
with  my  tears!"  A  slight  shudder  passed  over  her  frame, 
as  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  marble  stair-way  interrupted 
her  reverie,— but  a  transient  ray  of  surprise  as  well  as 
pleasure  illumined  her  features,  when,  instead  of  the  anti- 
cipated intruder,  her  father's  faithful  old  steward,  Pierre 
Dubois,  stood  before  her. 

"Pardon  me,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  said  with  a 
respectful  reverence,  "  for  interrupting  you  at  so  unseason- 
able an  hour,  and  when  you  are  probably  in  expectation  of 
more  distinguished  visitors,  as  these  illuminated  halls  would 
testify; — but  my  duties  in  the  metropolis  are  ended,  and  I 
am  about  to  return  to  my  native  land.  I  could  not,  how- 
ever, resolve  to  depart,  until  I  had  seen,  once  more,  the 
daughter  of  my  excellent  and  lamented  lord.  To-morrow, 
I  propose  returning  to  the  land  of  my  fathers." 

"  To  Switzerland!"  exclaimed  Estelle.  "  Oh  my  kind,  I 
had  almost  said,  my  only  friend,  do  not  desert  me  at  such 
a  time  as  this;  delay  your  departure  at  least  a  few  weeks, 
for  I  know  not  to  what  desperate  extremity  I  may  be  driven 
in  that  time!"  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  as  she 
spoke,  and  the  tears  fell  fast  through  her  fair  and  slender  fin- 
gers. Pierre  stood  in  respectful  silence,  until  her  emotion 
permitted  her  again  to  speak.  "  You  see,  Dubois,"  she  said 
at  length,  looking  up,  "  how  much  less  happy  I  am  in  this 
magnificent  prison  than  when,  in  our  old  chaleau  of  Pro- 
ven$e,  I  was  free  as  the  birds  and  the  flowers.  But  more 
than  this,  I  cannot  now  tell  you.  Let  me,  however,  conjure 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  207 

you  not  to  leave  me  yet;  seldom  as  you  can  gain  admittance 
to  me,  it  is  still  a  consolation  to  have  you  near. — Promise 
me,  then,  that  you  will  remain." 

"  It  was  only  on  condition  that  I  should  never  again  apply 
for  admittance,  that  an  entrance  was  granted  me,  this  even- 
ing," said  Dubois,  "  and  I  fear  my  stay  will  avail  but  little, 
my  dear  young  lady.  But  I  already  know,  perhaps,  more 
than  is  suspected,  and  I,  at  least,  will  do  nothing  to  grieve 
you  farther. — I  will  remain." 

"  Thanks!  thanks,  my  kind  friend, — and  now  we  must 
part,  lest  your  present  visit  should,  indeed,  for  the  future, 
bar  all  access  to  me.  Yet  stay  one  moment,"  she  added, 
taking  from  her  finger  a  costly  ring. — "  Present  this  to  your 
excellent  Eleanore,  as  a  token  of  kind  remembrance  from 
me."  The  old  man  received  the  jewel  with  respectful 
courtesy,  and  kissed  with  reverence  the  fair  hand  that 
extended  it.  In  a  moment  more,  the  lovely  Estelle  was 
again  contemplating  her  Proven9e  rose,  in  silence  and  alone. 

A  brief  space  of  time  elapsed  after  the  departure  of 
Pierre  Dubois,  ere  another  and  a  more  assured  footstep 
was  heard  on  the  stairway.  The  bright  flush,  that  suffused 
the  cheek  of  Estelle,  changed  to  an  almost  deadly  paleness, 
as  the  domestic,  with  ceremonious  courtesy,  threw  wide  the 
folding  doors  of  the  farthest  room,  and  announced  the  name  of 
"  d'Arnauld."  The  first  movement  of  the  gentle  solitaire 
seemed  to  indicate  a  desire  of  attempting  a  retreat, — but  a 
glance  at  the  apartment  she  had  left,  to  follow  the  faithful 
Pierre,  determined  her  to  remain  where  she  was.  Such 
an  apparition  was  less  appalling  by  the  light  of  a  grand 
salon,  than  in  the  shadowy  obscurity  of  the  boudoir.  Sup- 
pressing the  mingled  feelings  of  fear  and  aversion  which 
rose  in  her  heart,  she  received  the  approaching  guest  with 


208  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

dignity  and  grace,  and  the  agitation  she  at  first  manifested 
was  subdued: — she  was  composed  and  calm. 

"  May  I  hope,"  he  said,  as  he  advanced  toward  her, 
•'  that  I  am  not  guilty  of  intrusion?  How  fortunate  I  may 
esteem  myself  in  being  admitted  to  these  usually  deserted 
halls,  blest  as  they  now  are  with  the  presence  of  the  fair 
Estelle,  and  still  happier  am  I  in  finding  her  thus  alone!" 

"  The  commands  of  the  Comte  Grimaldi  are  a  guarantee 
for  both,"  replied  Estelle,  with  a  degree  of  hauteur  foreign 
to  her  usually  gentle  manner,  and  which  was  contradicted 
by  the  slight  tremulousness  of  her  voice.  "  I  possess  not 
the  power,  if  I  had  the  will,  to  contravene  them." 

"  Most  uncourteously  spoken,  most  fair  lady; — am  I  then 
to  infer  that  had  it  depended  on  the  will  and  pleasure  of  the 
beauteous  being  before  me,  these  apartments  would  have 
been  still  deserted,  or  their  chief  attraction  absent?" 

*«  It  would  ill  become  me,"  replied  Estelle,  with  the  same 
grave  dignity  that  had  from  her  first  appearance  marked  her 
manner,  "  to  be  wanting  in  courtesy  to  the  nephew  of  my 
guardian  and  protector;  beneath  his  roof,  the  Signor 
d'Arnauld  has  always  assurance  of  welcome." 

"  Ay,  from  their  august  excellencies,  the  Comte  Gri- 
maldi and  his  interesting  consort,"  returned  d'Arnauld 
with  a  sneer.  "  But  the  welcome  of  both  I  would  willingly 
barter,  for  one  kind  glance  from  the  bright  eyes  of  Estelle." 

"  The  feeble  health  of  the  countess,  and  the  unfortunate 
state  of  her  mind,"  said  Estelle,  with  a  slight  glow  of  indig- 
nation, "  might  protect  her  from  the  shafts  of  levity  and 
sarcasm.  I  am  here  but  as  her  representative:  would  that 
she  could  resume  her  place  in  the  society,  from  which  she 
is  debarred." 

"  That  you  might  resume  yours,  during  the  approaching 
summer,  amid  the  shades  and  solitude  of  your  chateau  of 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  209 

Provenge?"  inquired  d'Arnauld,  with  a  penetrating  glance. 
There  was  an  expression  in  his  voice  and  eye,  that  accom- 
panied the  word  solitude,  which  enkindled  a  crimson  blush 
on  the  cheek  of  his  lovely  auditress.  "  Happily  for  me, 
however,"  he  continued,  "  so  barbarous  a  plan  will  not  be 
carried  into  execution.  As  soon  as  the  health  of  the  coun- 
tess will  admit  of  it,  which  we  trust  will  be  in  a  few  days, 
we  shall  leave  this  metropolis  for  the  brighter  skies  of  my 
native  land.  The  Comte  will  pass  the  summer  at  his  Italian 
villa."  As  he  slowly  pronounced  the  last  words,  he  fixed 
his  keen  eyes  on  the  face  of  the  fair  listener,  as  if  to  watch 
their  effect,  though  a  less  penetrating  observer  might  have 
detected,  in  the  start  of  surprise  and  alarm  with  which  they 
were  received,  the  agitation  they  awakened.  "  When  once 
in  that  witching  land  of  sunshine  and  of  song,"  he  still  con- 
tinued, as  if  he  had  not  perceived  the  emotion  his  former 
words  produced,  "  what  may  I  not  hope?  Cannot  even 
the  obdurate  heart  of  the  beauteous  Estelle  be  softened  by 
such  enchanting  influences,  and  this  fair  hand  then  be  mine?" 

"  Never!  signer,"  was  the  prompt  response,  as  the  fair 
being  he  addressed  recoiled  from  his  touch  as  from  a  ser- 
pent. "  A  broken  heart  would  be  an  unworthy  gift,  and 
the  hand  you  seek  is  not  mine  to  bestow.  I  had  hoped 
that  it  would  not  again  be  necessary  to  rend  aside  the  veil 
that  conceals  the  past,  to  seek  reasons  for  my  rejection  of 
your  suit." 

"  Nor  does  it  need,  loveliest, — I  would  rather  the  past 
should  be  for  ever  buried  in  oblivion.  Reasons!  what  reasons 
need  be  alleged  for  steeping  the  past  in  the  waters  of  Lethe, 
when  the  heart  is  as  yet  unbroken,  and  the  hand  has  been 
— rejected!" 

A  flashing  glance  from  the  bright  eyes  of  Estelle,  as  she 
sprang  from  her  seat,  warned  the  bold  lover  that  he  had 


210        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

gone  beyond  the  limits  of  his  usual  prudence.  Recovering 
herself  instantly,  however,  she  said,  "  this,  I  presume  is 
to  humiliate  my  pride.  The  tale  has  reached  my  ear  ere 
now: — but  why  should  aught  so  idle  be  repeated  to  me?" 

"  Who  is  there  to  gainsay  it,  fair  lady?"  said  d'Arnauld 
with  increasing  audacity.  "  Can  I  not,  myself,  bear  testi- 
mony to  unanswered  messengers  from  the  hand  of  Estelle 
to  Eugene  de  Beaufort? — Is  not  this  a  proof  that  the  world 
will  readily  believe?" 

"Beware,  signor,"  said  Estelle,  speaking  with  more 
firmness  than  she  had  hitherto  been  able  to  assume,  "beware 
how  you  put  the  world  in  possession  of  such  proofs — 
mirrors  sometimes  betray  what  the  wily  tongue  would  not 
willingly  reveal.  Within  the  porte-bouquet  of  those  flowers, 
but  now  sent  me  from  the  hand  of  my  young  kinsman, 
Alphonse  de  Montalais,  and  which  the  Signor  d'Arnauld 
took  from  the  hand  of  his  messenger,  my  eye  detected  a 
letter: — it  has  disappeared,  and  in  its  fate  I  have  read  that 
of  my  own,  and  of  those  which  have  responded  to  them. 
May  they  not  be  a  type  of  the  hapless  being  for  whom 
they  were  destined?  crushed — destroyed  by  the  hand  that 
might  have  saved  and  blest  them!"  The  unbidden  tears 
sprang  to  her  eyes  as  she  spoke,  and  she  turned  to  leave 
the  apartment. 

"  Stay!"  exclaimed  d'Arnauld,  on  whose  dark  brow  the 
portentous  clouds  of  rage  and  shame  had  contended  for 
mastery  while  she  was  speaking; — "stay!"  he  repeated, 
grasping  her  hand,  "  hear  me  before  you  depart,  rash  girl! 
It  is  time  to  throw  aside  this  idle  mask  of  flattery  and  deceit. 
— Ere  many  days  have  passed,  you  will  be  far  from  your 
native  land — the  sunny  clime  of  Italy  will  be  your  home; — 
there  I  have  friends  to  aid  my  will,  priests  to  do  my  bidding, 
gold  to  compass  all  my  wishes, — and  hear  me  swear  that 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  211 

ere  the  autumn  returns,  Estelle  St.  Helene  shall  be  the 
bride  of  d'Arnauld!  Remember,  I  am  powerful; — thou 
friendless  and  unprotected." 

"  I  do  indeed  remember  it,  cruel  and  hard-hearted  man," 
said  Estelle,  with  a  degree  of  energy,  at  which  she  was 
herself  surprised.  "  I  do  indeed  remember  it, — would  that 
I  could  ever  forget  it  amid  these  scenes  of  treachery  and 
persecution.  But  friendless  and  unprotected  as  I  am,  I  fear 
thee  not.  Thou  hast  wealth  and  menials,  but  I  have  at 
least  one  friend,  whose  goodness  is  infinite,  and  whose 
power  will  ever  guard  me  from  a  fate  so  dreadful!" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven  as  she  spoke,  and  such 
was  their  seraphic  expression,  that  the  guilty  d'Arnauld 
shrunk  with  superstitious  awe  from  their  radiant  loveliness, 
and  releasing  her  hand  from  his  grasp,  she  instantly  dis- 
appeared. 


"  The  uncertain  glories  of  an  April  day"  were  drawing 
rapidly  to  a  close,  when  a  party  of  horsemen,  who  had  been 
for  many  previous  hours  threading  the  gloomy  mazes  of  the 
Black  Forest,  entered  the  celebrated  pass  of  the  Holenthal  in 
its  vicinity.  The  dark  shadows  thrown  across  their  narrow 
and  rugged  road,  which  wound  its  way  on  the  margin  of  a 
brawling  stream,  swelled  almost  to  a  torrent  by  the  floods 
of  the  early  spring,  were  deepened  by  the  enormous  para- 
pets of  rock,  which  shot  up  to  the  distance  of  nearly  a 
thousand  feet  above,  and  almost  met  over  their  heads,  while 
the  slight  glimpse  they  occasionally  caught  of  the  heavens, 
displayed  a  dense  mass  of  rising  clouds.  The  rain  was 
already  pattering  among  the  wintry  leaves  that  had  been 
swept  by  the  blast  across  their  pathway,  and  the  distant 
thunder  echoed  among  the  surrounding  hills  and  mountains. 

The   horsemen   rode   onward  at   a   rapid  pace,   and  in 


212  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

silence,  until  they  emerged  from  the  awful  gloom  of  the 
pass,  when  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  pleasure  at  the 
beautiful  contiast,  afforded  by  the  prospect  before  them,  burst 
from  each  lip.  On  one  side,  the  mountains  were  crowned 
with  the  remains  of  ancient  castles,  which  redeemed  their 
dark  and  savage  appearance,  and  invested  them  at  once  with 
romantic  interest, — on  the  other,  though  still  mountainous, 
the  country  was  apparently  fertile,  and  finely  cultivated,  arid 
their  road  wound  its  way  through  a  rich  and  smiling  valley 
between:  just  in  front,  were  the  distant  mountains  of  Alsace, 
beautifully  relieved  against  a  brilliant  though  portenlous 
sky,  while  the  spires  of  Fribourg,  particularly  that  of  the 
cathedral,  through  the  Gothic  network  of  which  the  sun 
darted  his  departing  rays,  ci owned  the  lovely  picture. 

The  orb  soon  sank  beneath  the  horizon,  and  the  bright 
light  of  his  parting  smile  was  soon  obscured  by  the  dark 
and  threatening  clouds  which  rose  rapidly  in  the  heavens. 

Just  as  the  young  officer,  who  was,  apparently,  the 
commander  of  the  party,  spurred  his  horse  forward,  as  if  to 
encourage  them  to  yet  greater  speed,  ere  the  gathering  storm 
should  spend  its  fury  on  their  unsheltered  heads,  the  noble 
animal  received  a  severe  contusion  from  a  sharp  angle  of 
rock  that  projected  into  the  path-way.  The  rider  threw 
himself  from  the  saddle  to  examine  the  extent  of  the  injury, 
which  was  even  greater  than  he  had  anticipated.  A  closer 
scrutiny  convinced  him  that  the  gallant  steed  could  not, 
without  the  greatest  difficulty  and  danger,  traverse  the 
remaining  two  leagues  of  the  route. 

"  Here  is,  indeed,  an  unexpected  obstacle  to  our  pro- 
gress," said  de  Beaufort,  for,  as  may  have  been  already  sur- 
mised, the  young  officer  was  no  other  than  our  hero:  "  What 
is  to  be  done  under  such  circumstances?  Dubois,  my  good 
young  friend,  you  are  better  acquainted  with  this  wild  region 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  213 

than  any  one  present,  can  you  not  recall  to  your  recollection, 
some  auberge  between  this  and  Fribourg  where  we  can 
pass  the  night?" 

The  young  man,  after  a  moment's  thought,  shook  his  head 
and  replied  in  the  negative. 

"A  shelter  we  must  have,"  continued  de  Beaufort,  "if  we 
are  compelled  to  dispute  it  with  the  owls  that  are  hooting 
from  the  battlements  of  yon  ruined  castle.  Some  part  of  it, 
at  least,  may  afford  protection  from  the  rain,  until  you  can 
ride  forward,  and  procure  me  another  horse.  My  own 
brave  charger  may  perhaps  limp  as  far  as  the  city,  unen- 
cumbered by  a  rider;  but  for  the  present,  I  will  not  be  guilty 
of  the  inhumanity  of  adding  my  weight  to  the  pain  he  now 
suffers."  :,  - 

"  A  brave  soldier  need  have  no  dread  of  the  ghosts  which 
are  believed  to  inhabit  these  crumbling  walls,"  said  Dubois, 
"  for  each  of  the  castles  of  these  regions  has  its  appro- 
priate spirits  and  legends.  I  think  I  have  some  remem- 
brance of  having  once  played  hide  and  seek  in  this  one,  when 
on  a  visit  with  my  mother  to  her  parents  in  Fribourg.  Small 
comfort,  indeed,  it  promises,"  he  continued,  as  they  passed 
through  the  court,  and  entered  the  ample  portal.  "  I  wish 
it  may  afford  you  shelter,  until  I  can  execute  your  com- 
mands." 

He  urged  his  horse  forward  as  he  spoke,  and  soon  was 
lost  to  view  in  the  increasing  gloom. 

At  any  other  moment,  de  Beaufort  would  have  been 
deeply  interested  in  contemplating  the  rude  magnificence  of 
the  monument  of  feudal  power  and  wealth  which  they  were 
now  exploring.  But  he  paused  not  to  examine  the  armorial 
bearings  of  the  arched  entrance,  nor  the  remains  of  bas 

O 

reliefs  and  pilasters  that  adorned  the  facade.     He  passed  on 
from  one  roofless  hall  to  another,  until  he  perceived  that  the 


214  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

thick  dank  grass  no  longer  waved  around  his  feet,  and, 
looking  up,  discovered  that  the  roof  of  this  end  of  the  build- 
ing was  still  standing,  and  afforded  a  tolerable  protection 
from  the  rain,  which  now  began  to  fall  in  torrents. 

To  a  soldier,  the  accommodation  of  his  horse  is  always 
deemed  of  far  more  importance  than  his  own,  and  a  large 
and  once  magnificent  hall,  adjoining  the  one  in  which  de 
Beaufort  and  his  companions  had  found  shelter,  provided 
theirs  with  a  refuge  from  the  storm.  Without  even  the 
advantage  of  a  light,  which  became  each  moment  more 
desirable,  the  prospect  of  awaiting  the  return  of  Dubois  in 
this  comfortless  abode,  would  have  awakened  no  small 
degree  of  impatience  in  spirits  less  accustomed  to  hardship 
and  privation;  but  amid  the  gay  and  buoyant  group  that  had 
sought  shelter  within  these  ruined  walls,  the  very  incon- 
veniences of  their  situation  were  subjects  of  merriment,  and 
jests  and  bon-mots  enlivened  the  obscurity  of  their  resting 
place.  One  by  one,  however,  the  jocund  voices  died  away, 
and  the  drowsy  divinity  began  to  spread  his  influences 
around:  de  Beaufort  soon  followed  4he  example  of  his  young 
companions,  and  taking  possession  of  a  sort  of  dais,  or 
raised  spot  on  the  ruined  floor,  which  they  had  laughingly 
awarded  him  as  the  place  of  honour,  he  drew  his  soldier's 
cloak  around  him,  and  the  cares  and  fatigues  of  the  day 
were  soon  buried  in  oblivion. 

How  independent  is  the  dreaming  spirit  of  the  rough  and 
harsh  realities  of  corporeal  existence!  Bright  and  beautiful 
were  the  visions  that  floated  through  the  imagination  of  the 
young  soldier,  as  he  pressed  his  hard  and  comfortless  couch. 
Can  it  be  doubted,  that  the  fairy  form  of  his  loved  Estelle 
gave  to  his  sweet  dream  its  most  potent  charm? 

And  still  he  slept,  and  longer  might  have  dreamed,  but 
that  he  was  partly  aroused  to  a  consciousness  of  his  real 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  215 

situation,  by  a  singular  sensation  of  insecurity  in  his  posi- 
tion, and  as  if  the  earth  on  which  he  reposed  was  rocking 
beneath  him.  Ere  he  had  time  fully  to  recover  himself,  he 
felt  that  he  was  sinking  lower  and  lower,  until  on  awaking, 
he  found,  to  his  astonishment,  that  the  scene  around  him 
was  entirely  changed.  His  companions  had  all  disappeared, 
and  by  the  light  of  a  large  lamp  suspended  from  the  ceiling, 
which  threw  its  broad  glare  around,  he  saw,  that  instead  of 
the  ruined  hall  in  which  he  had  sought  repose,  he  was  now 
in  an  ample  apartment,  furnished  with  the  richest  profusion. 
Yet  a  strange  mixture  of  luxury  and  barbarous  rudeness 
was  displayed  in  its  arrangement.  Silken  couches  were 
strewed  with  sabres  and  cutlasses,  and  the  table,  apparently 
spread  for  a  banquet,  and  heaped  with  massive  silver  plate, 
was  also  loaded  with  pistols  and  other  implements  of  des- 
perate strife. 

Struck  with  surprise  at  this  strange  phenomenon,  de 
Beaufort,  now  fully  arbused,  seized  the  sword,  which  be- 
fore he  slept  he  had  deposited  at  his  side,  and  was  springing 
to  his  feet,  when  he  felt  both  his  arms  rudely  pinioned  by 
unseen  hands  from  behind. 

"  Not  so  fast,  my  young  gallant!"  said  a  rough  deep 
voice  close  to  his  ear.  "  What!  is  it  in  this  uncourteous 
manner  that  the  visitors  to  our  lordly  castle  use  their  hos- 
pitable entertainers?" 

"  He  hath  left  a  goodly  company  above,  that  he  might 
the  more  quickly  come  into  our  embrace,"  said  a  voice, 
hardly  less  harsh  and  grating  than  the  first  that  had  spoken. 
"  I  would  he  had  brought  a  few  of  his  attendants  with 
him;  our  gains  might  have  been  better  worth  the  trouble  of 
aiding  his  descent  among  us." 

"Villains!"  exclaimed  de  Beaufort,  struggling  in  their 
grasp,  "  Let  go  your  hold,  or" 


216  FRAGMENTS  OF  A.  JOURNAL. 

"Ha!  ha!"  interrupted  the  first  speaker,  drowning  his 
voice  in  a  derisive  laugh.  "  How  bravely  the  young  cap- 
tive strives  for  his  liberty!  we  must  have  help; — what — ho 
— Burkhardt!" 

The  door  of  an  adjoining  cell  was  thrown  open,  and  three 
men  rushed  into  the  apartment.  With  their  assistance,  the 
prisoner  was  effectually  secured. 

"And  now,"  said  the  facetious  host,  "thou  may'st  finish 
thy  sleep  upon  the  silken  couch  on  which  thou  art  for  the 
present  laid;  but  beware  lest  thou  provoke  us  farther.  Thy 
voice  in  its  utmost  pitch  cannot  penetrate  these  walls,  and 
beside  these  goodly  weapons,  which  thou  seest  strewed 
around,  we  have  other  means  of  silencing  such  contumacious 
guests." 

As  he  spoke,  he  threw  aside  a  trap  door,  within  a  few 
feet  of  de  Beaufort,  and  the  sullen  roar  of  a  torrent  was 
distinctly  heard  beneath. 

"  It  were  as  well,"  he  continued,'  "  and  far  wiser,  to 
await  our  decision  on  thy  fate,  as  to  descend  still  lower  in 
our  abode,  where  our  ears  would  be  as  little  annoyed  by  thy 
appeals  to  thy  sleeping  companions,  as  they  are  now  insen- 
sible of  their  loss." 

He  tossed  back  the  trap  door  as  he  spoke,  and  rejoined 
his  companions  who  were  assembling  around  the  table. 

The  love  of  life  is  strong  in  a  youthful  breast.  Despite 
the  determined  bravery  of  his  character,  de  Beaufort  re- 
coiled from  the  dark  and  awful  abyss  that  had  thus  been 
suddenly  revealed  to  him.  He  could  no  longer  doubt  that 
he  was  in  the  hands  of  robbers,  by  whose  ingenuity  he  had 
been  entrapped,  as  it  was  most  probable,  that  the  very  spot 
selected  for  him  by  his  young  friends,  when  they  laid  them- 
selves down  to  rest,  concealed  the  trap  door  by  which  he  had 
(Vpremled  among  these  banditti,  and  it  was  no  less  certain 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  217 

that  he  was  completely  in  their  power.  Resistance  could 
only  hasten  the  fate  that  he  anticipated,  and  some  faint 
glimpse  of  hope  might  be  cherished  from  the  deep  draughts 
of  wine,  which  his  ferocious  hosts  now  began  to  imbibe. 
Their  wassail  was  long  and  loud,  and  amid  the  boasts  of 
daring  deeds,  and  hoarse  laughter  mingled  with  oaths  and 
execrations,  de  Beaufort's  attention  was  suddenly  arrested 
by  a  sound  familiar  to  his  ear. 

"  Thou  art  a  brave  boaster,  Grunthal,"  growled  the 
hoarse  voice,  that  had  first  addressed  de  Beaufort,  and 
which  belonged  apparently  to  the  chieftain  of  the  band. 
"  But  thy  deeds  are  ignoble  in  comparison  with  mine. 
Thou  must  have  the  benefit  of  distant  travel  and  lordly 
company,  ere  thou  canst  compare  with  thy  commander. 
What  thinkest  thou  of  being  employed  in  matters  of  state,— 
in  being  bearer  of  despatches  from  the  powerful  Comte 
Grimaldi  to  the  great  ones  of  Austria?" 

De  Beaufort's  startled  ear  was  now  completely  enchained, 
and  he  listened  with  almost  breathless  attention  to  the 
details  of  a  treasonable  correspondence,  which,  from  the 
revelations  of  the  robber  chief,  appeared  to  be  passing 
beween  the  stern  guardian  of  Estelle,  and  the  enemies  of 
his  country. 

"  Yes!"  continued  the  chief,  throwing  a  package  of 
letters  on  the  table,  "  there  is  my  patent  of  nobility,  and  what 
is  better,  a  bond  for  a  thousand  ducats  when  they  are  deli- 
vered. Let  me  henceforth  hear  no  more  of  your  vain  boast- 
ing. I  have  surpassed  ye  all." 

A  chorus  of  dissonant  laughter  followed  this  harangue, 
and  again  the  conversation  reverted  to  deeds  of  darkness 
and  of  blood.  The  wine  flowed  in  torrents,  and  the 
sound  of  their  revelry  echoed  through  the  vaulted  roof  of 
the  huge  apartment. 
15 


218  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

"  A  curse  light  on  you,  ye  roaring  wassailers!"  yelled 
the  chief,  trying  to  drown  the  voices  of  his  companions,  "  the 
noise  ye  make  would  startle  the  dead  from  their  graves.  I 
marvel  ye  are  not  afraid  of  arousing  the  white  spirit  that 
frightened  off  the  fools  who  had  their  abode  here  ere  we 
came." 

"  By  the  saints!"  said  Burkhardt,  who  was  rather  more 
overcome  by  the  effects  of  the  wine-cup  than  the  rest  of 
his  companions,  "  I  would  that  brave  spirit  would  now 
appear  among  us;  right  good  sport  it  would  be  to  pledge  it 
in  a  goblet  of  this  choice  Johannisberg!" 

As  he  spoke  these  words,  the  attention  of  the  band  was 
suddenly  drawn  toward  their  chieftain,  who  started  from  his 
seat.  The  expression  of  drunken  levity  on  his  face  was  in 
an  instant  changed  to  one  of  awe-stricken  terror, — the  fiery 
flush  of  his  cheek  was  blanched  to  a  livid  paleness,  his 
grizzled  hair  arose,  and  his  eyes  seemed  "starting  from 
their  spheres." 

"  There! — there!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  as 
he  pointed  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  "  see,  caitiff, 
what  thy  blasphemous  tongue  hath  conjured  up!" 

The  eyes  of  the  whole  band  were  eagerly  turned  to  a 
distant  corner  of  the  apartment,  indicated  by  the  hand  and 
the  glance  of  their  chieftain;  and  to  their  unspeakable  horror, 
and  to  de  Beaufort^l  infinite  astonishment,  they  beheld, 
standing  in  an  arched  niche  of  the  wall,  a  tall  attenuated 
figure,  covered  with  long  floating  garments  of  the  purest 
white,  as  if  clad  in  the  vestments  of  the  tomb. 

With  loud  cries  of  terror  the  whole  band  rushed  in  the 
opposite  direction,  stumbling  over  each  other  as  they  fled 
precipitately  from  the  subterranean  apartment,  leaving  de 
Beaufort  alone  with  this  strange  apparition.  The  voices  of 
the  robbers  died  away  in  the  distance,  and  the  figure  emerg- 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  219 

ing  from  the  recess  in  which  it  had  previously  stood  with- 
out motion,  and  apparently  without  life,  advanced  toward 
him.  « 

Though  almost  a  stranger  to  impressions  of  nervous 
terror,  yet  so  great  had  been  the  excitement  of  the  last  three 
or  four  hours,  that  de  Beaufort  shrunk  from  the  mysterious 
form  which  now  approached  him.  Without  a  word,  the 
singular  shade  approached  the  table,  grasped  eagerly  the 
papers,  which  had  been  thrown  on  it  by  the  chieftain, 
raised  a  knife  from  the  banquet  table  of  the  wassailers,  and 
drew  near  him.  Could  it  be  that  he  had  escaped  death 
from  the  hands  of  the  robbers,  only  to  meet  it,  in  a  form, 
if  possible,  still  more  terrific? 

His  doubts  were  speadily  solved  by  the  phantom,  which 
seemed  only  intent  on  severing  the  bonds  of  the  captive. — 
In  an  instant  he  was  free,  and  with  newly  restored  energy 
he  responded  to  a  gentle  and  steady  voice,  which  whispered 
in  his  ear,  "  follow  me!" 

As  one  walking  in  his  sleep,  the  bewildered  de  Beaufort 
followed  the  rapid  pace  of  his  mysterious  conductor.  They 
passed  first  through  a  long  and  narrow  passage  leading  from 
the  niche  in  which  the  form  had  first  been  seen,  and  after 
several  subterranean  turnings  and  windings,  they  reached 
the  deserted  court  and  ruined  entrance.  The  gray  light  of 
morning  was  already  beginning  to  dawn,  and  by  its  light  he 
perceived  for  the  first  time,  that  he  had  not  been  conducted 
by  an  unearthly  spirit,  but  that  a  living  being,  a  tall  female 
form,  stood  before  him. 

Throwing  aside  quickly  the  floating  white  garment  and 
veil  which  had  produced  so  supernatural  an  effect,  she 
appeared  in  the  simple  garb  of  an  Alsatian  peasant. 

"Permit  me,"  she  said,  "to  offer  one  more  testimonial 
of  my  willingness  to  serve  you,  and  one  dearer  to  you  than 


220        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

life.  Take  these,"  she  continued;  offering  the  papers  she 
had  secured,  when  in  the  robbers'  apartment;  "they  may 
be  more  precious  than  gold,  and  preserve  this  ring,"  taking 
a  brilliant  from  her  finger,  "until  we  meet  again.  And 
now,  permit  me  to  go  under  your  escort  as  far  as  Fribourg, 
for  this  haunted  ground  may  otherwise  be  as  fatal  to  me,  as 
it  had  nearly  proved  to  you." 

As  she  spoke  these  words,  the  trampling  of  horses  was 
heard,  and  de  Beaufort  beheld  his  companions  rapidly 
approaching. 

The  explanations  and  revelations  that  followed,  it  would 
be  needless  to  relate.  They  served  to  beguile  the  distance 
that  remained,  and  the  sun  was  brightly  gilding  the  lofty 
spire  of  the  gothic  cathedral  of  the  city,  when  they  entered 
its  walls. 

"  Delay  not,"  whispered  the  unknown  deliverer  of  de 
Beaufort,  as  he,  with  renewed  thanks,  bade  her  farewell. 
"  There  is  a  danger  which  threatens  the  being  thou  lovest, 
greater  even  than  that  thou  hast  so  recently  escaped.  Fare- 
well,— and  receive  my  blessing  for  thyself  and  her!" 


A  few  days  succeeded  the  events  just  narrated.  The 
evening  was  closing  in,  and  the  superb  hotel  of  the  Comte 
Grimaldi  blazed  with  even  more  than  its  wonted  magnifi- 
cence. But  its  haughty  possessor  entered  not  his  own 
splendid  apartments.  With  a  lowering  brow,  arid  a  coun- 
tenance "  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought,"  he 
slowly  and  musingly  paced  the  floor  of  a  large  and  dimly 
lighted  library  in  a  retired  part  of  the  hotel. 

His  reverie  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a  valet, 
who  approached,  and  with  a  profound  reverence,  presented 
a  note  accompanied  by  a  card.  He  then  awaited,  with  re- 
spectful humility,  the  orders  of  his  lord 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  221 

The  dark  brow  of  the  Comte  grew  still  darker  as  he  read 
the  address  presented  to  him. 

"  Admit  him  not;"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  angry  decision. 

The  domestic  bowed,  and  was  about  to  withdraw,  when 
his  stern  lord,  who  had  approached  the  dim  light,  that  alone 
relieved  the  apartment  from  obscurity,  glanced  slightly  at 
the  billet  he  held  in  his  hand.  His  cheek  was  blanched  to 
a  degree  of  still  greater  paleness,  as  he  read  the  few  words 
it  contained,  and  hastily  arresting  the  retreat  of  his  valet, 
he  reversed  his  former  order,  and  directed  him  to  attend 
the  visitor  to  the  library.  A  few  minutes  elapsed,  when 
the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  de  Beaufort  entered. 

"  I  thought  not,  signor,"  he  said,  with  a  graceful,  but 
rather  haughty  reverence,  "  to  have  again  intruded  myself 
into  your  presence  after  our  last  interview.  Yet  I  deemed 
it  essential  to  your  interest  as  well  as  my  own  happiness, 
to  seek  an  explanation  of  what  deeply  affects  both." 

"  I  know  no  explanation  that  is  necessary  on  the  part  of 
either;"  replied  Grimaldi,  with  an  air  of  defiance.  "  The 
order  I  gave  for  your  admission,  was  only  in  consequence 
of  this  note  I  hold  in  my  hand,  which  promises  some 
important  revelation." 

De  Beaufort  suppressed  the  feeling  of  indignant  pride 
that  rose  in  his  heart  and  flushed  his  cheek. 

"Your  age,  signor,"  he  repliecL  " alone  prevents  the 
retort  that  was  rising  to  my  lips.  The  object  of  my  visit 
may  be  explained  in  few  words.  I  demand  an  interview 
with  Estelle  St.  Helene,  and  that  without  delay." 

Astonished  at  the  boldness  of  the  young  officer,  who  thus 
presumed  to  address  him,  Grimaldi  started: — his  brow 
darkened  like  a  thunder  cloud. 

"It  is  in  vain,  signor,  to  attempt  to  intimidate  me  by  a 
lowering  frown  and  haughty  words,"  returned  de  Beaufort, 


222  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

with  firm  dignity;  "  know,  proud  Corate,  thou  art  in  my 
power, — thou  darest  not  deny  my  request." 

As  he  spoke,  he  drew  from  his  breast  a  package  of  letters, 
and  approaching  the  lamp  near  which  Grimaldi  stood,  dis- 
played the  superscription  of  the  first  to  his  astonished  view. 
Instantly  his  whole  aspect  was  changed.  As  if  startled  by 
some  fearful  apparition,  his  rising  brow  relaxed  its  severity, 
his  fixed  gaze  stared  on  de  Beaufort  as  on  a  spectre,  and  he 
exhibited  the  ghastly  terror  of  a  condemned  criminal. 

"  Thy  life  is  in  my  hands,  as  thou  art  now  aware,  Comte 
Grimaldi,"  said  de  Beaufort,  "  yet  thou  shall  find  that  the 
injured  may  be  generous.  Once  more,  I  demand  an  inter- 
view with  Estelle  St.  Helene." 

Without  a  word  of  reply,  the  hitherto  haughty  Grimaldi 
summoned  an  attendant,  and  complied  with  the  request. 

During  this  interview,  the  fair  Estelle  was  the  sole  occu- 
pant of  the  splendid  apartments  in  a  distant  part  of  the 
hotel.  With  anxiety  and  trepidation  she  had  once  more 
obeyed  the  stern  injunction  of  her  guardian  to  repair  to  the 
salons,  where  she  was  informed  that  he  would  speedily  join 
her  to  receive  his  visitors.  Her  cheek  was  paler  than  its 
wont,  and  as  she  entered  the  rooms  she  cast  an  uncertain 
glance  around.  A  sigh,  breathed  as  if  to  relieve  a  throbbing 
heart,  escaped  from  her  lips  as  she  advanced,  and  she 
seemed  to  congratulat^Jierself  on  being  alone.  But  soon, 
the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps  awakened  in  full  force 
the  emotion  and  alarm  which  had  for  a  moment  been  sup- 
pressed;— her  varying  cheek  betokened  the  anxiety  of  her 
fluttering  heart.  She  turned,  and  beheld, — not  as  she 
had  anticipated,  the  dreaded  d'Arnauld, — but  Eugene  de 
Beaufort! 

It  would  be  as  vain  as  useless  to  attempt  to  describe  the 
surprise  of  the  lovely  Estelle,  or  the  happiness  of  her  lover. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  223 

It  will  be  sufficient  to  say,  that  the  explanations  which  oc- 
curred during  their  interview,  left  not  the  slightest  shade  on 
the  past. 

"  Strange,"  said  Estelle,  at  length,  musingly,  "  strange 
indeed,  was  the  adventure  of  the  haunted  castle,  which  has 
been  blest  in  so  singular  a  manner  to  us.  The  ways  of 
providence  are  mysterious  and  wonderful.  But  did  the 
Alsatian  peasant  give  you  no  clue  by  which  you  might  dis- 
cover her?" 

"  She  gave  me  a  token  of  some  value,"  replied  de  Beau- 
fort, displaying  the  ring  entrusted,  to  him  by  his  deliverer. 

Estelle  took  the  jewel  from  his  hand.  "  It  is  impossi- 
ble," she  said,  examining  it  attentively,  "  that  I  can  be 
mistaken;  this  is  certainly  the  ring  I  sent  by  the  hands  of 
my  father's  faithful  steward  to  his  excellent  wife.  They 
are  both  devoted  to  me,  and  I  believe  would  sacrifice  life 
itself  in  my  service.  I  see!"  she  exclaimed — "  I  under- 
stand the  mystery  now!  The  kind  Eleanor  has  often  told 
me,  in  my  childhood,  tales  of  a  haunted  castle  of  her  native 
land  in  the  vicinity  of  Fribourg.  Her  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  all  its  turnings  and  secret  doors  enabled  her  to 
approach  the  subterranean  apartment  of  the  robbers  by  a 
way  unknown  to  them,  and  by  counterfeiting  the  white 
spirit,  to  save  you  at  the  risk  of  her  own  life.  It  was  doubt- 
less through  her  son,  the  young  Dubois,  that  she  was  ap- 
prised of  your  danger,  and  secured'your  escape." 

"  And  thus,"  continued  de  Beaufort,  "  preserved  a  life 
which  would  have  been  worthless  but  for" — 

The  sweet  smile  on  the  lip  of  the  beautiful  Estelle,  and 
the  gentle  glance  with  which  she  raised  her  bright  eyes  to 
his,  completed,  better  than  words  could  have  done,  the  sen- 
tence of  Eugene.  But  suddenly  the  ruby  lip  was  blanched, 
and  an  expression  of  deadly  terror  succeeded  the  placid 


224  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

loveliness  of  her  smile.  As  she  looked  up,  she  beheld  in 
the  large  mirror  opposite  where  they  stood,  the  form  and 
face  of  her  dreaded  persecutor,  d'Arnauld.  His  counte- 
nance revealed  the  fiendish  passions  of  his  guilty  heart,  as 
he  hastily  unsheathed  a  stiletto.  Another  moment  might 
have  been  fatal  to  de  Beaufort,  but  the  gleam  of  the  upraised 
dagger  flashed  in  his  eyes  from  the  opposing  mirror,  and  in 
another  moment,  his  dastardly  foe  was  prostrate  at  his  feet. 
"  Take  thy  worthless  life!"  exclaimed  de  Beaufort,  as  he 
snapped  the  unmanly  weapon  in  twain,  and  threw  the 
pieces  from  him,  "  but  depart  hence,  and  pollute  no  longer 
with  thy  presence  an  air  which  thou  art  unworthy  to 
breathe.  Let  me  never  more  behold  thee,  lest  I  be  tempted 
to  proclaim  thee  a  coward  and  an  assassin!" 


To  the  astonishment  of  the  brilliant  circles  of  the  metro- 
polis, among  whom  surmisings  had  already  arisen  with 
regard  to  the  fate  of  the  fair  Estelle,  instead  of  bestowing 
her  hand,  as  had  been  anticipated,  on  the  nephew  of  her 
haughty  guardian,  who  had  suddenly  disappeared,  the  stern 
Comte  Grimaldi  was  seen  occupied  with  preparations  for 
her  union  with  de  Beaufort.  Deeds  were  signed,  and 
parchments  delivered  with  surprising  alacrity;  and  even  the 
paternal  office  of  bestowing  the  fair  bride  on  her  happy 
lover  was,  with  seeming  courtesy  and  willingness,  assumed 
by  him. 

Never  had  lovelier  lady  or  more  gallant  knight  knelt 
before  the  altar;  and  well  did  the  chaplet  of  snowy  orange 
blossoms  wreathed  in  her  auburn  tresses,  and  the  bridal  veil, 
with  its  transparent  folds,  that  floated  over  her  fair  shoulders, 
become  the  face  and  form  of  the  beautiful  Estelle. 

The  rite  was  concluded,  and  de  Beaufort,  with  the  arm 
of  his  lovely  bride  gently  resting  on  his  own,  was  descend- 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  225 

Ing  the  broad  steps  of  the  church,  when  a  young  officer 
interrupted  his  dream  of  bliss,  by  placing  a  letter  in  his 
hand.  The  radiant  expression  of  his  fine  features  changed 
to  one  of  the  deepest  anxiety,  as  he  glanced  at  the  few 
words  it  contained.  The  cabalistic  writing,  which  he  in- 
stantly recognised,  told  him  but  too  plainly,  that  its  con- 
tents could  not  be  disregarded.  It  allowed  him  hardly  per- 
mission to  escort  his  fair  bride  to  the  elegant  hotel  prepared 
for  her  reception. 

"  Bright  vision  of  happiness,  how  soon  hast  thou  fled!" 
sighed  de  Beaufort,  as  they  entered  his  halls.  "  My  life! 
my  love!  we  must  part, — and  that  instantly;  nor  have  I 
even  the  poor  privilege  of  saying  wherefore." 

"  Part!"  repeated  Estelle  with  terror,  "  Oh,  why  this 
mystery?  why  should  the  few  words  of  that  strange  scroll 
have  such  magic  power?" 

"  I  dare  not  reveal  their  import,"  said  de  Beaufort.  "  Ere 
long  it  will  be  permitted  to  me  to  explain  the  cause  of  this 
sudden  movement,  that  comes  as  if  to  crush  the  life  from 
my  heart;  but  now,  I  can  only  say — Adieu!" 

Sad,  indeed,  was  the  parting  of  these  youthful  lovers,  but 
to  de  Beaufort  the  stern  decree  was  irresistible  as  fate,  and 
a  few  hours  found  him  with  his  regiment  many  leagues  dis- 
tant from  the  Metropolis. 

To  a  mind  of  keen  sensibility,  there  is  an  agony  in  un- 
certainty and  suspense,  hardly  surpassed  by  the  most  terri- 
ble reality.  The  mysterious  haste,  with  which  de  Beaufort 
had  been  summoned,  convinced  his  bride  that  some  great 
enterprise  of  difficulty  and  danger  was  in  contemplation. 
The  anguish  that  he  manifested  in  parting  with  her  plainly 
revealed  that  he  foresaw  the  uncertainty  of  his  return.  The 
very  circumstance  of  his  concealing  from  her  the  object  of 
his  journey  convinced  her  of  his  danger. 


226  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

"  I  cannot  endure  this  suspense!"  she  exclaimed,  as  she 
paced  the  apartments  after  his  departure.  "  Far  better 
would  it  be  to  follow, — nay,  to  perish  with  him!" 

From  the  faithful  Dubois  she  learned,  that  the  regiment 
had  taken  the  route  to  Dijon,  and  thence  would  proceed  to 
Lausanne.  Her  resolution  was  speedily  taken.  This  beau- 
tiful city,  or  that  of  Geneva  would  offer  her  a  residence,  in 
which,  at  least  her  present  suspense  and  anxiety  might  have 
a  more  speedy  termination  than  by  remaining  in  the  metro- 
polis; and  with  her  kind  and  trusty  attendants,  Dubois,  and 
his  excellent  Eleanore,  she  departed. 

Arrived  at  Lausanne,  her  anxiety  became  yet  more  in- 
tense. The  sudden  movement  of  the  mighty  conqueror, 
before  whom  all  obstacles  seemed  to  melt  away,  indicated 
his  purpose  of  crossing  the  Alps  at  the  Grand  St.  Bernard, 
and  it  now  began  to  be  understood.  The  dangers,  which 
threatened  his  army  on  the  Italian  side  of  the  Alps,  could 
not  be  concealed. 

"  Let  us  meet  once  more  before  we  part  for  ever!"  ex- 
claimed Estelle,  as  her  faithful  attendants  in  vain  attempted 
to  console  her.  "  At  the  Hospice  of  St.  Bernard,  I  may  at 
least  have  the  sad  satisfaction  of  again  bidding  him  fare- 
well!" 

"  The  route  at  this  season  of  the  year  is  fatiguing  and 
dangerous,  my  dear  young  lady,"  said  Pierre,  "I  fear  much 
that  you  may  repent  of  your  resolution." 

He  ceased,  however,  to  oppose  himself  to  her  wishes, 
when  he  witnessed  her  distress. 

"  I  am  almost  alone  in  the  world,"  she  said  with  a  sort 
of  despair,  "  why  should  I  fear  to  perish,  if  I  am  never  to 
see  him  more?" 

On  arriving  in  the  village  at  the  base  of  the  Grand  St. 
Bernard,  they  found  that  the  army,  in  its  recent  departure, 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  22T 

had  drawn  off  all  the  means  of  conveyance  at  hand,  and  it 
was  impossible  to  procure  even  a  guide  for  the  whole  dis- 
lance.  A  peasant  consented  to  permit  the  use  of  his  mules 
until  they  should  arrive  within  a  league  of  the  Hospice,  but 
farther  than  that  he  would  not  go,  fearing  to  be  impressed 
into  the  service. 

"  I  have  walked  many  a  league  on  a  far  lighter  errand," 
said  Estelle,  "  on  these  conditions,  we  will  depart  without 
delay." 

Pierre  shook  his  head,  but  the  resolution  of  his  beloved 
young  lady  triumphed. 

The  morning  was  bright  and  beautiful,  as  at  the  dawn  of 
day  they  set  forth.  The  valleys  at  the  base  of  the  mountain 
were  covered  with  the  fresh  and  tender  green  of  the  early 
May,  and  all  was  smiling  and  beautiful;  but  as  the  little 
cortege  wound  its  way  among  the  gloomy  terrors  of  the 
Montagnes  Mortes,  the  aspect  of  the  heavens  changed 
with  that  of  the  surrounding  scenery.  Long  streams  of 
fleecy  mist  rolled  slowly  over  the  dark  summits  of  the 
mountains,  and  the  occasional  gusts  of  wind,  that  swept 
across  the  steep  and  rugged  road,  indicated  a  speedy  change 
of  weather.  In  vain  did  they  use  both  entreaties  and  gold 
to  induce  the  sturdy  peasant  to  accomplish  the  remaining 
league  of  the  route;  his  determination  was  inflexible,  and 
with  a  heavy  heart,  Pierre  aided  his  beloved  charge  in 
descending. 

Slowly  and  silently,  they  pursued  their  toilsome  way  on 
foot.  The  recent  passage  of  the  army  of  Napoleon  had 
rendered  the  road  less  difficult  in  places,  where  at  that 
season,  without  such  an  advantage,  it  would  have  been 
impassable.  They  had  accomplished  nearly  half  of  the 
route,  when^  the  gathering  clouds  lowered,  and  the  snow 
began  to  fall  around  them.  With  his  trusty  iron-shod  staff 


228  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

in  hand,  and  his  arm  supporting  the  steps  of  his  sinking 
protegee,  the  faithful  Pierre  moved  steadily  onward.  But 
the  snow  began  to  drift  across  their  path,  and  the  fleecy 
shower  was  rapidly  concealing  it  from  their  view. 

"Hasten,  hasten,  my  dearest  young  lady!"  he  exclaimed, 
"  I  have  been  in  these  Alpine  wilds  before  now; — you 
know  not  the  danger  to  which  we  are  exposed!" 

Thus  exhorted,  his  lovely  charge  increased  the  rapidity  of 
her  pace;— but  the  violence  of  the  wind,  and  the  whirling 
eddies  of  snow,  that  dazzled  and  blinded  them,  soon  over- 
whelmed both  with  fatigue.  Breathless  and  exhausted, 
they  paused,  and  Estelle,  gliding  from  the  support  of  her 
kind  attendant,  leaned  for  rest  against  a  projecting  rock. 

"Do  not,  I  beseech  you,  dearest  lady,  attempt  to  sit 
there  for  rest,"  said  Pierre,  alarmed  at  the  paleness  of  her 
cheek,  "  there  is  more  danger  in  rest  than  in  the  most  violent 
exertion." 

But  the  fair  being,  to  whom  the  exhortation  was  ad- 
dressed, heard  him  not.  Exhausted  by  fatigue,  and  be- 
numbed with  the  penetrating  cold,  she  sank  insensible  at 
his  feet. 

In  vain  did  the  unhappy  Pierre  make  the  surrounding 
rocks  and  mountains  echo  with  his  frantic  cries  for  aid;— 
in  vain,  with  his  icy  hands,  did  he  endeavour  to  chafe  her 
marble  brow.  No  sign  of  consciousness  appeared.  In  the 
extremity  of  his  anguish,  he  alternately  prayed  and  wept, 
and  wrung  his  hands 

He  threw  himself  in  despair  by  her  side,  when  a  sudden 
noise  awoke  a  gleam  of  hope  in  his  breast.  A  large  dog 
bounded  over  the  rocky  path-way,  and  stood  at  his  feet. 

"  All  hope  then  is  not  extinct,"  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
"  Heaven  be  praised  for  its  mercies!" 

As  he  spoke  two  marronniers  were  seen  descending  the 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  229 

mountain,  and  with  their  aid,  the  slight  form  of  Estelle  was 
speedily  conveyed  to  the  Hospice. 

"  Where  am  I?"  exclaimed  Estelle,  as  with  a  deep  sigh 
she  awoke  from  the  state  of  insensibility  into  which  she 
had  fallen.  "  What  strains  of  music  are  those  I  hear?" 

"  Heaven  be  praised!"  again  ejaculated  her  kind  old 
attendant,  as  the  tears  chased  each  other  over  his  furrowed 
face;  "  I  had  feared  never  to  hear  that  loved  voice  again. 
But  we  are  safe,  dearest  lady, — we  have  found  refuge  in 
the  Hospice  of  St.  Bernard." 

"  St.  Bernard!"  she  exclaimed,  "  Oh  Eugene!" 
A  loud  burst  of  military  music  arose,  as  she  pronounced 
the  last  words.  Notwithstanding  the  recent  exhaustion  she 
had  suffered,  she  sprang  forward,  and  attempted  to  open  the 
door; — but  it  was  secured  on  the  outside.  The  only  win- 
dow of  the  apartment  opened  into  the  front  court  of  the 
Hospice.  She  flew  toward  it,  and,  looking  out,  beheld  the 
formidable  array  of  the  legions  of  the  conqueror.  The  tri- 
coloured  banners  were  waving  above  the  heads  of  the 
mighty  multitude,  and  the  sound  of  the  trumpet  was  min- 
gled with  the  tramp  of  cavalry.  The  eye  of  Estelle  passed 
quickly  over  the  grand  host,  and  rested  on  two  officers  near 
the  Hospice.  The  face  of  the  elder  was  turned  toward 
her,  and  presented  features,  which,  once  seen,  could  never 
after  be  forgotten.  The  broad  pale  forehead,  the  eagle 
glance,  the  expression  of  the  symmetrical  and  firmly  closed 
mouth,  would  have  revealed  to  her,  had  she  not  already 
seen  him,  the  leading  spirit  of  the  legions  around  him.  In 
the  younger,  she  instantly  recognised  Eugene  de  Beaufort. 
"  Eugene!"  she  exclaimed,  "  Oh  Eugene!" 
Her  voice  was  lost  even  in  the  apartment,  amid  the  clash 
of  arms  and  a  loud  burst  of  music. — A  few  moments  more, 
— and  the  mighty  host  had  disappeared  from  her  view! 


230        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

It  was  in  the  lovely  month  of  June,  1800,  as  the  moon 
was  rising  in  silvery  radiance  over  the  peaceful  lake  of 
Maggiore,  and  ere  the  soft  and  brilliant  tints  of  an  Italian 
sunset  had  faded  away,  that  a  youthful  pair  were  seen, 
slowly  wandering  through  the  fragrant  groves  of  orange  and 
myrtle  that  adorned  the  picturesque  gardens  of  Count 
Borromeo's  fairy  palace.  At  one  moment  they  paused  to 
contemplate  the  waves  of  the  glassy  lake,  that  sparkled  in 
the  moon-beams;  at  another,  they  looked  on  the  bright 
foliage  that  adorned  the  Isola  Madre,  and  again  the  faint 
glow  on  the  distant  and  snow-capped  summit  of  Monte 
Rosa,  challenged  their  admiration.  Need  it  be  said  that 
this  happy  pair  were  Eugene  de  Beaufort,  and  his  beautiful 
bride? 

Crowned  with  laurels,  earned  on  the  field  of  Marengo,  he 
had  richly  earned  the  privilege  of  passing*  the  time  of  the 
armistice  in  this  region  of  enchantment. 

"  Since  that  period,"  continued  our  host,  "  I  have  fre- 
quently had  tidings  of  my  young  friend,  and  though  years 
have  since  passed  away,  he  is  still  blessed  with  all  that 
fortune  and  affection  can  give.  For  my  own  part,  I 
was,  at  the  period  to  which  my  story  refers,  far  less  fortu- 
nate. Imprisoned,  as  I  before  said,  for  the  long  and  weary 
space  of  eighteen  years,  I  found,  on  my  return  to  my  home 
and  friends,  many  changes;  my  wife,  as  you  may  have 
observed,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  "  is  young  enough  for 
my  daughter,  and  the  little  ones  you  now  see  gambolling 
around  me,  should  have  been  my  grandchildren.  My 
troubles,  however,  have  had,  at  least,  one  good  effect, — that 
of  softening  my  heart  to  the  distresses  of  others." 

To  this  we  responded  heartily  and  gratefully;  and  of  this 


LOMBARDY.  23j 

extraordinary  scene,  and  still  more  extraordinary  company, 
we  took  our  leave  at  a  late  hour  of  the  night,  and  retired  to 
rest,  which  was  most  welcome  after  this  day  of  fatigue  and 
anxiety. 

At  an  early  hour  the  next  morning,  our  good  host  sent 
some  of  his  numerous  household  to  examine  the  condition 
of  the  road,  and  as  they  brought  back  a  favourable  report, 
we  prepared  to  resume  our  journey.  A  delicate  attempt  at 
remuneration  for  the  trouble  we  had  caused,  not  only  to  the 
attendants  of  our  host,  but  several  of  the  villagers,  was  dis- 
covered, and  arrested  so  abruptly,  that  we  dared  not  press 
it  farther,  and  (with  the  exception  of  the  frolicsome  maid 
servant,  who  laughingly  pocketed  the  five-franc  pieces 
showered  upon  her,)  our  offers  were  declined,  and  we  were 
only  permitted  to  express  our  gratitude  for  the  patriarchal 
kindness  and  touching  hospitality  of  this  good  man.  Cer- 
tain it  is,  that  we  shall  never  forget  the  Chevalier  Leone, 
and  the  village  of  Pivarone. 

We  were  fortunate  enough  at  the  little  town  of  San  Ger- 
mano,  to  find  one  pair  of  post-horses  that  had  been  left  by 
the  queen.  Of  these  we  availed  ourselves,  and  dismissed 
the  poor  old  pair  that  had  rendered  us  such  important 
service  the  day  before.  At  the  next  post  we  could  con- 
gratulate ourselves  on  being  out  of  her  majesty's  route, 
and  the  pleasure  of  travelling  rapidly  over  a  smooth  road, 
with  fleet  horses  and  brisk  postillions,  can  only  be  appre- 
ciated by  travellers,  who  had  experienced  as  many  vicissi- 
tudes as  ourselves.  The  change  in  the  aspect  of  the  coun- 
try, was  as  great  as  that  in  our  mode  of  travelling;  and  the 
perfect  level  of  the  rice  fields,  and  crops  of  waving  maize,  the 
wide  spreading  and  beautiful  meadows,  bordered  by  rows 
of  willows  and  poplars,  in  the  lovely  plains  of  Lombardy, 
presented  a  most  pleasing  contrast  with  the  mountains 


232  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

among  which  we  had  been  wandering.  These  mountains, 
though  still  in  view,  and  near  enough  for  the  snow  on  their 
summits  to  be  distinctly  visible,  were  yet  at  a  sufficient  dis- 
tance to  assume  that  "  azure  hue,"  so  essential  to  render 
them  beautiful.  The  plain  stretches  out  to  their  base,  unin- 
terrupted by  the  slightest  rise,  and  it  is  impossible  to 
imagine  a  more  lovely  country  than  that  through  which  we 
were  rapidly  gliding. 

Not  the  slightest  temptation  was  offered  to  us  to  pause 
at  the  towns  of  Vercelli  and  Novarro,  through  which  we 
passed  on  our  way:  they  both  presented  an  appearance  of 
poverty  and  decay,  that  was  anything  rather  than  attractive 
or  inviting. 

We  stopped  a  short  time  at  the  baths  of  Oleggio,  which 
we  found  a  fine  establishment,  filled  with  visitors  from  all 
nations,  doubtless  drawn  to  this  charming  spot  by  the  beauty 
as  well  as  the  salubrity  of  the  situation.  The  view  from  the 
gardens  is  unique; — the  snow-clad  Alps  on  one  side,  and 
the  lovely  valley  of  the  Tessin  on  the  other,  melting  away 
in  the  distance,  and  the  smooth  blue  line  of  its  beautiful  and 
boundless  horizon  interrupted  only  by  the  innumerable  spires 
of  churches,  resembling  masts  on  the  distant  ocean. 

During  our  drive  that  evening,  we  had  an  opportunity  of 
judging  for  ourselves  of  Italian  scenery,  and  the  Italian  sky, 
and  no  description,  however  glowing  or  romantic,  can  equal 
the  reality.  It  may  have  been  that  we  were  particularly 
favoured  in  the  aspect  of  the  heavens,  as  their  brilliancy  was 
perhaps  heightened  by  the  purifying  influences  of  the  recent 
storm,  but  it  is  certain  that  we  never  saw  them  arrayed  in 
such  colours  before.  The  sun,  for  several  hours  before  he 
disappeared,  presented  a  silvery  brightness,  which  might  be 
looked  at  without  the  painful  effect  ordinarily  occasioned  by 
looking  his  majesty  in  the  face.  As  the  orb  descended,  he 


AN  ITALIAN  SUNSET.  333 

was  "  shorn  of  his  beams"  by  a  misty  veil  of  clouds,  and 
gradually  changed  from  a  brilliant  white  to  a  delicate  rose 
colour,  which  deepened  until  he  entirely  disappeared.  For 
half  an  hour  a  soft  twilight  succeeded,  when  the  horizon 
brightened, — the  light  bluish  clouds  which  were  hovering 
over  the  distant  mountains  assumed  all  the  rich  and  varied 
hues  of  the  rainbow,  while  the  sky  above  presented  the 
glowing  and  golden  tints  so  finely  portrayed  in  the  sunset 
pieces  of  Claude.  The  bright  yellow  light  illuminated  the 
whole  scene  around,  and  had  just  faded  away  as  we  reached 
the  Lago  Maggiore,  on  whose  shore  is  the  town  of  Arona, 
where  we  terminated  our  day's  journey. 


16 


234        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 


THE  RfGHI. 

EARLY  on  the  brightest  morning  we  had  seen  for  many, 
many  days,  we  mounted  our  horses  to  cross  the  Brunig  on 
our  way  to  Lucerne,  in  the  hope  of  meeting  that  evening 
with  our  fellow-travellers,  who  had  pursued  the  more  direct 
course  from  Berne.  The  air  was  fresh  and  pure,  and  the 
heavens  without  the  slightest  cloud.  An  involuntary  sigh 
accompanied  an  expression  of  regret  that  we  had  not  been 
favoured  with  this  splendid  day  for  our  excursion  to  Lauter- 
brunnen;  but  we  consoled  ourselves  with  the  hope  of  ob- 
taining an  indemnification  for  our  disappointment,  by  reach- 
ing the  Righi  while  it  remained  clear.  The  weather  in 
these  wild  regions  is  so  uncertain,  that  we  felt  particularly 
anxious  to  reach  this  celebrated  mountain,  before  another 
change  should  deprive  us  of  the  view  from  its  summit. 

"  You  cannot  reach  the  Righi  to-day,"  said  one  of  our 
guides,  while  remarking  the  effects  of  the  first  rays  of  the 
rising  sun  upon  the  mountains  and  valleys  below  us,  from 
the  summit  of  the  Brunig.  "  What  a  pity!"  he  added — 
"  we  have  had  so  few  such  days  as  this  during  the  sum- 
mer!" 

The  remark  increased  our  anxiety  to  proceed;  but  with 
the  decided  tone  which  those  who  happen  to  be  "dressed 
in  a  little  brief  authority"  are  wont  to  assume,  the  guides 
told  us  we  spoke  of  impossibilities,  and  we  continued  to 
walk  our  horses  over  the  mountain,  and  to  remark  its 
beauties,  which,  though  not  extraordinary,  are  very  pleas- 


THE  RIGHI.  235 

ing.  As  we  approached  its  summit,  we  were  informed  by 
our  loquacious  conductors  that  we  were  passing  the  line  be- 
tween Berne  and  Unterwalden.  They  continued  to  amuse 
us  with  their  comparison  of  the  respective  merits  of  the  two 
cantons,  in  which  their  opinions  were  exactly  opposed, 
(one  being  a  Protestant  and  the  other  a  Catholic,)  during  the 
descent,  where  we  found  the  road,  though  rugged  and  nar- 
row, redeemed  from  its  savage  wildness  by  passing  through 
a  superb  forest  of  beech  trees,  which  sprung  from  the  clefts 
of  enormous  masses  of  rocks,  thickly  covered  with  moss. 
We  enjoyed  this  refreshing  shade  until  we  reached  the 
auberge  in  the  valley  below.  Here  we  stopped  for  a  short 
time  to  procure  a  little  char-a-banc,  to  carry  us  through  the 
valley  of  Sarnem.  This  lovely  spot,  though  perhaps  less 
known  to  travellers  than  any  other  part  of  Switzerland, 
offers  every  charm  that  nature  and  fine  cultivation  can 
afford.  Its  verdant  fields  are  rendered  yet  more  fertile  by 
the  quiet  little  lake  of  Lungern,  which  occupies  but  a  small 
portion  of  the  valley,  and  whose  dimpled  surface  was 
laughing  in  the  bright  morning  sun.  Its  placid  beauties 
contrasted  well  with  the  Brunig  we  had  just  descended, 
shutting  out  on  that  side  every  object  but  the  snowy  and 
dazzling  peaks  of  the  mountains  of  the  Oberlandt  which 
peered  above  it.  We  paused  for  an  instant  at  a  turn  in  the 
road,  to  take  a  last  view  of  this  singular  and  beautiful  fea- 
ture, and  then  rapidly  continued  our  route. 

Our  frolicsome  coachman  seemed  inclined  to  favour  our 
design  of  travelling  quickly,  for  he  appeared  to  be  perfectly 
inspired  by  the  fresh  air  and  bright  sun.  He  began  first  to 
whistle,  and  then  to  sing  in  a  sort  of  bass  voice,  not  unlike 
that  of  the  cows  he  had  doubtless  been  in  the  habit  of 
attending  before  being  exalted  to  his  present  station;  accom- 
panying each  cadence  with  a  motion  of  the  head,  well 


236  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

calculated  to  produce  the  impression  that  he  had  learned 
this  gesture  from  the  same  noble  source.  From  time  to 
time  he  gave  a  shrewd  glance  from  the  corner  of  his  eye 
to  see  how  the  jest  was  relished,  when  finding  we  were 
almost  as  merry  as  himself,  he  began  a  sort  of  wild  chant 
peculiar  to  the  mountains,  and  descended  from  his  seat  at 
every  little  hill,  more  for  the  pleasure  of  dancing  to  his 
music,  than  the  charity  of  resting  his  horses.  As  we  pro- 
ceeded, his  spirits  rose  higher  and  higher.  He  barked  at 
the  dogs,  squeaked  at  the  pigs,  baaed  at  the  goats,  squinted 
at  the  girls,  bowed  with  mock  reverence  to  the  old  men 
until  his  head  touched  the  horses'  tails,  and  saluted  all  the 
old  women  with  a  peal  of  laughter.  It  is  impossible  to 
conceive  anything  so  ridiculous;  especially  when  contrasted 
with  the  grave  demeanour  of  a  respectable  old  domestic  we 
had  brought  with  us  from  Berne,  and  who,  seated  by  his 
side  on  the  coach  box,  or  rather  the  front  seat  of  the  char, 
was  quite  scandalized  at  the  attention  he  attracted,  and  the 
astonishment  of  all  these  various  inhabitants  of  the  valley, 
who  remained  rooted  to  the  spot  where  they  had  been 
saluted  by  our  Jehu,  staring  after  him  in  mute  wonder.  It 
was  impossible  not  to  laugh — and  we  did  laugh,  as  the 
French  say,  "  attx  larmes."  His  merriment  was,  how- 
ever, interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  a  fine  old  church,  of 
grand  and  imposing  appearance;  and  as  we  passed  through 
the  lofty  portico,  supported  by  double  rows  of  columns  of 
fine  black  marble,  we  observed  that  he  crossed  himself  with 
an  expression  of  deep  devotion.  Our  tour  of  observation 
was  soon  finished,  and  we  departed  quietly,  without  dis- 
turbing the  devotions  of  the  pretty  peasant  girls,  who  with 
uncovered  heads,  (probably  left  so  for  the  innocent  pleasure 
of  showing  to  the  best  advantage  their  bright  locks,  secured 
by  large  silver  bodkins  ornamented  with  sparkling  stones 


THE  RIGHT.  337 

of  different  colours,)  were  kneeling  near  the  altar.  We 
soon  accomplished  the  remainder  of  our  journey  to  Alpnach, 
a  little  village  on  the  banks  of  the  lake  of  the  same  name, 
which  properly  is  a  part  of  the  lake  of  Lucerne,  or  the  four 
forest  cantons. 

Having  arrived  at  this  place  so  much  sooner  than  we 
anticipated,  we  again  indulged  the  hope  of  reaching  the 
Righi  before  sun-set,  and  lost  no  time  in  procuring  a  boat 
to  continue  our  route.  The  promise  of  additional  reward 
procured  us  additional  oars-men,  and  our  frail  bark  was 
soon  flying  over  the  blue  waters  of  the  lake.  We  had 
heard  so  much  of  the  beauty  of  the  lake  of  Lucerne,  that 
this  part  of  it  entirely  disappointed  our  expectations:  on 
every  side  we  saw  nothing  but  high  and  barren  mountains, 
and  the  scenery  is  entirely  too  rugged  to  be  pleasing.  But 
on  emerging  suddenly  from  the  Alpnach  see  into  the  wider 
part  of  the  lake,  as  we  turned  the  corner  of  a  huge  promon- 
tory of  rock,  we  found  ourselves  in  another  region.  The 
pretty  little  town  of  Kersiten  was  just  before  us:  on  the 
right  stood  the  town  of  Stantz;  on  the  left  rose  the  peaked 
summits  of  Mont  Pilatre;  and  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
broad  lake  we  saw  the  glittering  spires  of  the  capital  of  the 
canton.  The  rugged  mountains  were  all  soon  in  the  rear, 
and  the  shores  of  the  lake  on  each  side  presented  the  high- 
est cultivation  and  the  richest  verdure.  The  lake  was 
tranquil  as  a  mirror;  and  the  beautiful  scene  looked  even 
more  lovely  reflected  from  its  peaceful  bosom,  because,  as 
our  old  domestic  said,  "  there  the  picture  was  varnished" 
Even  the  hay-makers,  in  their  gay  costumes,  lost  none  of 
their  picturesque  effect  by  being  seen  renverses. 

We  glided  rapidly  past  this  pleasing  scene,  and  soon 
reached  the  town  of  Weggis,  at  the  foot  of  the  Righi. 
Notwithstanding  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  we  determined  to 


238  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

attempt  the  ascent,  and  our  guides  and  horses  were  speedily 
in  readiness.  We  found  less  difficulty  and  fatigue  than  we 
had  anticipated,  in  the  ascent;  for  the  road  is  far  better  than 
that  of  the  mountain  passes  we  had  recently  encountered  in 
the  valley  of  Chamouni,  and  we  yet  hoped  to  reach  the 
summit  before  sun-set.  High,  and  higher  we  climbed, 
until  all  the  mountains  and  lakes  of  Switzerland  seemed  to 
be  laid  out  below  us:  range  after  range  of  mountains  of 
every  shade  of  azure  appeared,  until  the  snowy  heights  of 
the  mountains  of  the  Oberlandt  crowned  the  glorious  scene. 
Then  we  paused;  for,  it  was  impossible  to  reach  the  sum- 
mit before  the  sun  went  down,  and  we  stopped  to  watch 
the  beautiful  effect  of  his  last  rays  upon  the  snow-clad 
mountains.  Their  dazzling  whiteness  was  changed  by 
degrees  to  the  purest  and  most  beautiful  rose  colour;  then 
the  roseate  hue  gave  place  to  a  ghost-like  white,  which 
brought  forcibly  to  mind  the  end  of  all  living,  and  this  was 
succeeded  by  a  blight  and  aerial  blue,  which  faded,  with  the 
approach  of  night,  into  a  sober  gray.  We  were  still  half  a 
league  from  the  summit,  and  were  yielding  to  the  advice  of 
our  guides  to  dismount  at  the  auberge  they  pointed  out  to 
us;  but  learning  that  there  was  another  inn  at  the  highest 
point,  we  resolved  to  proceed.  We  were  encouraged  in 
our  determinations  by  the  appearance  of  the  moon,  which 
was  rising  in  full  splendour;  and  though  the  silver  light 
was  too  faint  to  give  us  a  perfect  idea  of  the  magnificent 
scene  below,  it  yet  added  to  its  enchantment.  Another 
half  hour  brought  us  to  the  inn  on  the  summit,  where  we 
found  a  party  of  about  fifty  people,  who  were  all  merrily 
engaged  at  supper.  The  comforts  of  this  establishment 
certainly  would  not  have  been  a  sufficient  attraction  to  its 
numerous  guests,  for  they  were  "  few  and  far  between." 
Not  so,  however,  were  the  little  chambers  in  which  we 


THE  RIGHT.  239 

were  all  penned  up  for  the  night;  for,  as  they  were  sepa- 
rated only  by  thin  board  partitions,  the  conversation  of 
those  within  them  was  only  prevented  from  becoming 
general  by  the  variety  of  languages  spoken  among  them. 
It  was  a  little  babel.  Just  as  the  voices  of  two  giggling 
girls,  which  were  heard  after  the  rest  were  silent,  had  died 
away,  a  tremendous  wind  arose,  and  blew  with  a  fury  that 
threatened  to  carry  us  all  off  together  to  the  foot  of  the 
mountain;  and  the  idea  of  being  whirled  like  a  "fe.uille 
morte"  as  the  French  naturalist  said  when  in  the  same 
situation,  "  into  one  of  the  lakes  below,  or  among  the  rocks 
of  the  unfortunate  Goldau,"  was  certainly  not  the  most 
agreeable  in  the  world. 

I  believe  there  were  but  few  persons  in  the  auberge  who 
closed  their  eyes  that  night;  for,  those  who  were  not  appre- 
hensive for  their  safety,  feared  that  the  wind  might  bring  a 
change  of  weather,  which  would  deprive  them  of  the  view 
of  the  rising  sun;  and  this  idea,  with  the  discomforts  of 
mine  host's  beds,  was  sufficient  to  banish  "  nature's  sweet 
restorer."  It  was  with  no  little  pleasure  that  we  heard  the 
mountain  horn  announce  a  clear  morning — the  signal  that 
is  always  given  to  travellers  on  the  Righi,  when  the  sun 
promises  to  rise  without  clouds.  After  a  hasty  toilette,  of 
which  a  cloak  formed  the  most  important  part,  we  all  hur- 
ried out  to  the  highest  point  of  the  mountain,  distant  only 
about  forty  or  fifty  feet  from  the  auberge.  The  sun  was 
partially  obscured  by  a  few  light  clouds  for  some  minutes, 
but  the  sky  above  was  perfectly  clear,  and  the  view  entirely 
unimpeded  by  mist,  so  that  we  might  well  felicitate  our- 
selves upon  our  visit  to  this  celebrated  spot,  whose  charms 
can  never  be  exaggerated  nor  even  described.  On  the 
eastern  and  northern  side  appeared  innumerable  mountains; 
and  the  splendid  chains  of  the  Oberlandt,  now  of  a  dazzling 


240        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

white,  rendered  still  more  brilliant  by  the  rays  of  the  sun, 
rose  in  stately  grandeur  above  the  azure  of  those  nearest  in 
the  picture.  On  the  north  and  west,  the  view  appeared  to 
extend  to  th6  ocean,  or  to  infinity;  for  it  seemed  to  have  no 
limit.  The  Black  Forest  was  pointed  out  to  us  on  this  side, 
and  the  course  of  the  "  dark  rolling  Danube"  likewise 
indicated.  As  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  the  mountains  are 
interspersed  with  lakes,  of  which  we  counted  twelve,  dis- 
tinctly seen.  Just  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  on  the  eastern 
side,  we  had  a  complete  view  of  the  unfortunate  valley  of 
Goldau,  and  the  Rossberg,  whose  slide,  many  years  ago, 
buried  three  villages  with  four  hundred  inhabitants  beneath 
an  enormous  mass  of  earth  and  rocks.  It  is  affecting  even 
at  this  lapse  of  time  to  view  the  fatal  spot,  and  behold  this 
once  beautiful  and  smiling  valley  converted  into  a  rude 
monument  of  those  who  perished  there.  Even  the  lake,  in 
its  vicinity,  is  half  filled  up  by  the  immense  rocks  that  were 
tumbled  from  their  lofty  resting  place.  It  has  been  sup- 
posed by  some  naturalists  that  the  Righi  is  composed,  like 
the  Rossberg,  of  a  succession  of  strata,  between  each  of 
which  there  is  a  sort  of  slippery  clay,  liable  to  be  acted  on 
by  long  rains,  as  well  as  internal  springs.  As  these  strata 
are  said  to  be  upon  an  inclined  plane,  it  is  conjectured  that 
a  part,  or  indeed  almost  the  whole  mountain  might  slide 
off,  and  be  precipitated  into  the  lake  of  Lucerne  below. 
You  will,  I  doubt  not,  felicitate  us  that  this  agreeable  little 
adventure  did  not  occur  during  our  visit  to  it,  for  we  cer- 
tainly had  not  much  desire  to  add  to  the  splash. 

After  regaling  ourselves  for  several  hours  with  this  mag- 
nificent view,  so  often  denied  by  the  clouds  to  travellers, 
who  sometimes  wait  many  days  on  the  mountain  in  vain, 
we  felt  that  we  had  been  particularly  favoured,  and  were 
completely  indemnified  for  any  former  disappointments. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.  241 

We  descended  slowly  on  foot  on  the  northern  side,  having 
ascended  on  the  southern,  keeping  in  view  the  most  serene 
part  of  this  beautiful  picture,  and  in  a  few  hours  were 
reposing  in  the  chapel  of  William  Tell  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain.  This  little  chapel  has  nothing  remarkable  about 
it,  except  the  interest  it  possesses  in  connection  with  the 
celebrated  personage  whose  name  it  bears.  It  is  said  that 
on  this  spot  he  killed  the  tyrant  Gesler;  and  there  are  seve- 
ral other  chapels  dedicated  to  him  in  this  part  of  Switzerland. 
However  great  our  admiration  of  the  heroic  acts  of  the 
patriot,  we  did  not  care  to  visit  each  of  his  chapels,  and 
satisfied  ourselves  with  this  one  as  a  specimen.  We  were, 
indeed,  well  content  to  take  a  chaise  at  the  little  town  of 
Kussnacht,  in  its  vicinity,  to  continue  our  route  to  Lucerne; 
for,  a  walk  from  the  top  of  the  Righi  to  its  base,  is  no 
ordinary  promenade;  and  in  the  present  instance,  it  had 
been  somewhat  lengthened  by  our  visit  to  the  chapel,  and 
rendered  more  laborious  by  the  warm  rays  of  a  vertical 
sun. 

We  had  not  preceded  more  than  a  mile,  when  the  chaise 
seemed  to  me  to  move  slowly,  and  yet  move  slowly,  and 
at  length  entirely  stopped.  The  cause  of  our  detention 
was  explained  by  the  coachman,  who  said  that  the  narrow 
road  was  occupied  by  a  caleche,  which  had  been  accidentally 
broken,  and  that  we  could  not  proceed  until  it  was  removed 
out  of  the  way.  We  descended  for  a  short  time  to  facilitate 
the  operation,  and  were  surprised  to  find  that  the  caleche 
had  been  occupied  by  two  gentlemen,  one  of  whom  was  an 
old  friend  and  acquaintance.  The  other  I  remembered  well 
having  seen  the  evening  before  at  the  auberge  on  the  Righi, 
and  being  struck  with  his  air,  and  manner,  and  the  pensive 
sadness  which  clouded  his  brow.  The  most  natural  arrange- 
ment was,  that  we  should  offer  them  the  vacant  seats  of  our 


242  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

chaise,  as  they  were,  as  well  as  ourselves,  journeying  to 
Lucerne.  Our  friend  immediately  accepted  the  ofler,  but 
his  companion,  with  graceful  courtesy,  declined  it. 

"  You  are  less  accustomed  than  I  am  to  climbing  these 
mountains,"  he  said  with  a  melancholy  smile  to  his  friend. 
"  I  prefer,  at  present,  a  solitary  walk.  Adieu!" — and  striking 
into  a  pathway  which  led  from  the  more  frequented  route, 
he  disappeared. 

We  re-entered  our  chaise,  accompanied  by  our  friend. 

"I  am  rather  surprised,"  he  said,  "that  I  should  have 

presented  to  you  Lord  ,  with  whom  we  have  just 

parted,  for  the  first  time.  You  must  have  met  with  him 
before  in  the  haute  societe  de  Paris,  though  he  spends 
much  less  of  his  time  there  than  he  did  in  his  more  youthful 
days.  He  says,  that  his  career  of  folly  and  dissipation  was 
arrested  by  a  visit  to  these  mountains,  where  he  witnessed 
a  scene  that  made  an  indelible  impression  on  his  mind,  and 
essentially  aided  in  changing  him  from  the  thoughtless  being 
he  then  was,  to  the  sober  and  rational  man  you  now  behold 
him.  The  excellence  of  his  character  is  well  known  in  his 
own  country;  and  he  occasionally  visits  the  continent,  not 
to  renew  the  mad  career  in  which  he  was  once  engaged, 
but  for  health  and  recreation;  and,  as  he  says,  to  revisit  this 
spot,  lest  he  should  again  become  too  much  devoted  to  the 
world,  and  that  he  may  be  reminded  by  it  of  the  instability 
of  all  things  here  below.  He  last  evening  gave  me  so 
beautiful  and  touching  a  picture,  that  I  have  made  a  sketch 
of  it — not  without  his  approbation,  however,  for  that  would 
b'e  betraying  confidence.  He  told  me  that  he  did  not  object 
to  his  experience  being  made  a  beacon  for  others;  and  that 
I  had  his  permission  to  record  the  events  of  his  early 
history,  with  the  proviso  that  his  real  name  should  not 
appear." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.  243 

Here  our  friend  drew  from  his  pocket  a  small  manuscript, 
which  we  entieated  him  to  read  for  our  entertainment  during 
the  ride.  To  this  he  assented. 

"  Some  of  the  other  dramatis  persons,  with  whom  you 
will  become  acquainted,  during  the  recital  I  am  about  to 
make,"  he  said,  "  you  will,  I  doubt  not,  see  on  your  return 
to  your  far  distant  native  land,  though  1  have  taken  the  same 

liberty  with  their  names  as  with  that  of  Lord ,  whom 

you  will  recognize  under  the  title  of  Lord  de  Vaux.  Indeed 
I  think  it  most  probable  that  you  are  already  acquainted 
with  the  charming  family  to  whom  I  allude.  Should  you 
find  a  resemblance  to  them  in  my  description,  I  hope  you 
will  inform  me  if  my  picture  is  accurately  drawn." 

Seeing  the  impatience  with  which  we  awaited  the  open- 
ing of  the  manuscript,  our  friend  dispensed  with  father 
preface,  and  thus  began: 

On  a  bright  and  lovely  morning  in  the  latter  end  of  the 
month  of  June,  1806,  a  small  char-a-banc  was  seen  slowly 
wending  its  devious  way  through  one  of  the  romantic  valleys 
at  the  base  of  those  stupendous  mountains,  that  rise  in 
isolated  majesty  on  the  northwestern  side  of  the  lake  of 
the  four  forest  cantons  in  Switzerland.  As  it  was  traversing 
the  road  that  leads  from  the  town  of  Schwitz  to  the  Righi, 
it  might  well  be  imagined  that  its  course  was  directed 
towards  this  regina  montium,  from  whose  summit  the  view 
at  sunrise  has  been  well  said  to  "form  an  epoch  in  one's 
life  that  can  never  be  forgotten."  Whether  this  was  the 
design,  or  whether,  as  the  slackened  motion  of  the  little 
vehicle  seemed  to  indicate,  it  was  about  to  pause  on  the 
outskirts  of  one  of  the  thriving  villages  that  dotted  the 
green  and  smiling  valley,  may  perhaps  be  ascertained  by 
some  reference  to  its  inmates.  There  were  four  persons; 


244  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

three  ladies,  one  of  whom  was  apparently  rather  in  the 
wane  of  life,  while  the  other  two  seemed  to  have  numbered 
hardly  eighteen  summers;  and  a  young  man,  who  was 
evidently  the  guardian  and  escort  of  the  party.  It  may  be 
perhaps  as  well  to  mention  another  individual,  who  certainly 
thought  himself  the  most  important  personage  of  the 
groupe,  whatever  consequence  other  people  might  be  dis- 
posed to  attach  to  his  pretensions.  This  was  an  Italian 
grey-hound,  the  most  beautiful  and  diminutive  of  his  species; 
nestled  in  one  corner  of  the  little  carriage,  his  head  reposed 
in  tranquil  security  on  the  lap  of  the  younger  of  the  ladies, 
while  an  occasional  glance  toward  her  face,  seemed  to  invite 
the  caress  often  bestowed  by  her  delicate  hand.  Though 
this  dainty  favourite  could  not  boast  the  "ears  of  jet,  and 
emerald  eyes"  of  the  classic  and  "pensive  Selima,"  yet 
the  "  velvet  of  his  paws"  might  have  almost  rivalled  her's; 
and  some  reason  he  had  to  be  proud  of  his  silken  coat  of 
silver  gray,  his  snowy  breast,  and  the  soft  dark  lustre  of  his 
gazelle-like  eyes.  There  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  mysterious 
sympathy  between  this  dumb  companion  and  his  lovely 
mistress,  which,  however,  a  few  minutes  observation  satis- 
factorily explained;  they  were  alike  beautiful,  and  alike 
dependant  on  the  kind  care  of  friends;  for  they  were  alike 
— mute.  It  has  often  been  observed,  that  when  several  per- 
sons are  travelling  in  company,  they  are  either  unusually 
communicative  and  gay,  or  particularly  silent  and  contem- 
plative. The  latter  mood  seemed  to  possess  our  travellers; 
for,  during  the  last  half  hour,  not  a  word  had  been  spoken, 
except  an  occasional  exclamation  of  wonder  or  delight,  as 
each  turn  in  the  road  gave  them,  in  ever  varying  beauty, 
the  bright  bosom  of  the  lake  of  Lucerne,  or  the  soft  aerial 
blue  of  the  distant  Alps,  in  contrast  with  the  bold  dark 
outlines  of  the  nearer  Right  or  the  Rossberg. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         245 

As  the  char  approached  the  village  to  which  its  course 
was  directed,  the  attention  of  the  young  ladies  was  attracted 
by  a  neat  residence,  in  which  the  snug  comforts  of  a  Swiss 
cottage  were  singularly  blended  with  the  embellishments  of 
English  taste;  and  one  of  them  exclaimed — 

"  There  is  a  sweet  rural  looking  place,  Henry!  I  think 
that  house  would  exactly  suit  our  mother's  taste." 

"I  am  glad  it  meets  with  your  approbation,  Mary," 
replied  the  young  man,  "as  it  happens  to  be  the  one  I  have 
selected  for  your  six  weeks'  sojourn;  and  if  I  have  been 
equally  fortunate  in  another  quarter,"  he  added,  taking  his 
mother's  hand,  "my  frequent  visits  to  this  valley,  during 
our  stay  in  Lucerne,  will  not  have  been  fruitless.  As  to 
poor  little  Olivia,"  said  he,  glancing  toward  their  silent 
companion,  "  she  cannot  well  be  said  to  have  a  voice  in  the 
matter." 

"  I  am  sure  you  have  done  all  to  ensure  my  comfort  that 
filial  duty  and  affection  could  suggest,  my  son,"  said  his 
mother,  gently  pressing  the  hand  that  held  her's;  "you 
know  I  am  not  very  fastidious:  all  I  wish  is  a  quiet  retreat 
during  your  tour  through  Scotland,  which  I  hope  will  not 
be  delayed  beyond  the  appointed  time.  It  was  only  for 
your  gratification,  my  children,  that  I  have  consented  to 
wander  so  far  from  my  native  land,  whither  we  must  soon 
retrace  our  steps.  I  believe  I  can  hardly  consent  even  to 
revisit  England  before  our  return." 

"  I  know  not  exactly  what  the  fashionable  friends  we  met 
with  in  Florence  last  winter  will  think  of  our  choice,"  said 
the  young  lady.  "  They  will,  I  dare  say,  wonder  a  little, 
that  we  should  prefer  this  secluded  valley  to  the  shores  of 
lake  Leman's  crystal  tide,  or  the  rocks  of  Melleirie." 

"  It  is  true,"  replied  her  brother,  "  that  Geneva  or 
Lausanne  might  offer  a  gayer  residence,  yet  this  valley  has 


246        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

many  charms;  and  its  vicinity  to  the  Righi  may  perhaps 
render  it  at  some  future  time  as  popular  as  other  places  of 
resort  in  Switzerland.  It  is  certainly  as  pleasing  as  Inter- 
lachen,  which  is  becoming  so  great  a  favourite;  and  besides," 
he  added  gaily,  "  when  it  is  understood  that  Mrs.  Leslie 
and  her  lovely  daughter  are  here,  it  will  need  no  other 
attractions." 

"  Thank  you  for  my  share  of  the  compliment,  brother," 
said  Mary.  "  But  you  have  not  yet  suspected  the  cause  of 
our  mother's  fancy  for  this  spot.  Do  you  know,"  she 
added,  looking  at  her  mother  with  an  arch  smile,  "  that  I 
begin  to  think  her  preference  for  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
lake  of  the  forest  cantons  may  be  found  in  its  having  once 
been  the  residence  of  William  Tell.  Have  you  never 
heard  the  tradition  of  one  of  her  ancestors  being  descended 
from  the  Swiss  patriot?" 

"  You  have  mistaken  the  cause  of  my  preference,  my 
daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  "though  it  is  certain  that  it  does 
exist.  There  is  something  sweetly  soothing  in  the  remi- 
niscences of  by-gone  days,  even  when  sad  thoughts  are 
awakened  by  them;"  and  as  she  spoke,  a  shade  passed  over 
her  still  lovely  face.  "  I  visited  this  spot  many,  many  years 
ago,  when  I  was  blessed  with  youth,  health,  happiness, 
friends" — she  paused,  and  the  unbidden  tears  started  to  her 
eyes — "  yet  I  would  not  be  so  ungrateful  as  to  complain," 
she  continued  meekly.  "  I  am  now  blessed  in  my  children, 
and  I  trust  I  can  appreciate  the  beneficent  tenderness  of  an 
all-wise  Providence." 

At  this  instant  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  grille  of  the 
little  court  in  front  of  their  new  home,  and  the  travellers 
were  saluted  with  much  ceremony  and  more  kindness  by 
their  host  and  hostess,  who  with  their  only  daughter,  a 
buxom  and  blooming  lass,  came  forward  to  meet  them. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.  247 

Mrs.  Leslie  was  rather  surprised  when  the  hostess  addressed 
her  in  very  tolerable  English,  though  with  a  marked  accent — 

"  You  are  welcome  to  our  humble  roof,  lady,"  she  said; 
"and  the  more  welcome,  because  you  speak  in  a  language 
most  dear  to  me.  Until  I  had  attained  the  age  of  my 
daughter  Annette  there,  I  had  heard  no  other.  But  will 
you  please  to  glance  at  the  rooms  we  have  prepared  for 
you? — though  simple  enough,  they  are  the  best  we  have." 

The  accommodation  she  now  displayed  was  far  better 
than  her  guests  had  anticipated;  a  neat  parlor,  with  trelliced 
windows,  from  which  the  grand  and  beautiful  scenery  of 
the  adjacent  country  was  visible;  a  small  salle-ci-manger 
adjoining  it,  and  two  chambers  above,  separated  only  by  a 
thin  partition,  were  all  she  had  to  offer.  This  was  sufficient 
for  Mrs.  Leslie  and  her  two  young  companions;  and  her 
son  declined  putting  the  family  of  their  host  to  farther 
inconvenience  for  his  accommodation,  as  his  stay  was  so 
short.  He  should  remain  wiih  them  only  two  days,  and 
for  that  space  of  time  his  lodging  might  be  in  the  neighbour- 
ing auberge.  The  two  days  quickly  passed  away;  and 
with  a  few  silent  tears,  and  the  tender  blessing  of  his  kind 
mother  and  lovely  sister,  Henry  departed,  promising  that 
his  stay  should  not  in  any  event  exceed  six  weeks. 

The  hours  of  ennui  that  succeeded  his  departure,  his 
fond  friends  endeavoured  to  alleviate  by  arranging  their  little 
household  in  such  a  manner  as  to  insure  them  a  profitable, 
if  not  pleasing  use  of  the  time  which  would  elapse  during 
his  absence.  Books  they  had  been  careful  to  provide,  and 
to  these,  with  Olivia's  port-folio,  and  Mary's  harp,  which 
at  no  small  pains  and  cost  had  been  transported  to  this 
retired  spot,  and  now  formed  the  chief  ornament  of  their 
parlour,  they  looked  for  their  principal  sources  of  pleasure 
during  their  brief  sojourn  in  the  valley.  The  time  they 


248  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

had  recently  passed  in  Italy,  had  been  chiefly  devoted  to 
perfecting  themselves  in  these  accomplishments,  for  which 
they  had  both  at  an  early  period  of  their  lives  manifested  a 
decided  taste — and  the  graceful  and  spirited  sketches  of 
Olivia  de  Tracey,  and  the  sweet  voice  and  harp  of  Mary 
Leslie,  were  not  unknown  among  connoisseurs  even  in  that 
beautiful  and  classic  land.  It  was  not,  however,  a  desire  of 
distinction  in  fashionable  society  that  induced  Mary  to 
devote  several  hours  of  each  day  to  music;  she  was  the 
most  devoted  of  daughters;  her  mother's  health  was  delicate; 
and  often  when  her  spirits  were  agitated  or  low,  the  soft 
stealing  melody  of  her  daughter's  loved  voice  would  soothe 
and  calm  her,  and  "  witch  the  shade  away."  There  was 
something  indeed  in  that  voice  which  touched  less  tender 
hearts  than  that  of  a  fond  mother;  and  few  could  have  heard 
its  soft,  rich,  thrilling  tones,  even  in  speaking,  far  less  in 
song,  without  feeling  convinced  that  its  beautiful  possessor 
added  ineffable  sweetness  of  character  to  her  more  brilliant 
charms.  It  was  no  wonder,  then,  that  those  accents  should 
have  been  received  with  pleasure,  or  each  graceful  move- 
ment of  her  symmetrical  form,  and  change  of  her  expressive 
and  lovely  face,  should  have  been  watched  with  the  deepest 
interest  by  one  to  whom  she  was  almost  the  only  earthly 
treasure. 


Three  weeks  had  glided  a-way  almost  imperceptibly  to 
our  travellers  in  their  quiet  seclusion,  when  Mrs.  Leslie  was 
a  little  startled  one  morning  by  the  rather  precipitate  entrance 
of  her  daughter  into  her  apartment,  her  heightened  colour 
evidently  manifesting  the  occurrence  of  something  that  had 
disturbed  her  usual  gentle  equanimity. 

"  What  has  happened,  my  love?"  said  she,  laying  her 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.  249 

book  down,  and  looking  up  anxiously;  "have  you  any 
tidings  of  Henry?" 

"I  have,  dearest  mother,"  replied  Mary;  "but  nothing  is 
the  matter — do  not  be  alarmed." 

"  Then  why  did  you  enter  in  so  brusque  a  manner;  and 
where  is  his  letter?" 

"  I  have  no  letter,  dear  mother,  and  I  am  sorry  I  sur- 
prised you  so  much; — but  when  I  inform  you  that  the  bearer 
of  my  brother's  message  is  Charles  Lennox,  and  that  he  is 
now  under  our  roof,  you  will,  I  am  sure,  pardon  my  abrupt 
interruption  of  your  morning  occupation." 

"  I  shall  be  happy  to  welcome  him  here,  my  dearest 
child,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  rising  from  her  seat,  but  exhibit- 
ing much  less  surprise  at  the  intelligence  of  his  arrival  than 
Mary  had  anticipated.  "I  loved  Charles  tenderly  when  a 
child,  for  the  sake  of  his  mother,  who  was  my  dearest 
friend;  and  he  had  many  pleasing  and,  indeed,  winning 
qualities  as  a  youth.  Since  he  left  us  to  return  to  his  friends 
in  England,  you  know  I  have  seldom  heard  of  him,  except 
that  he  passes  the  greater  part  of  his  time  in  the  French 
capital,  the  gayest  of  the  gay." 

"  You  will  hardly  recognise  the  hair-brained  youth  we 
loved  so  much,  and  so  often  quarrelled  with  at  home,"  said 
Mary,  "so  much  has  our  young  kinsman  improved  in 
elegance  and — assurance,"  she  added  in  a  lower  voice,  as 
her  mother  left  the  room,  and  she  turned  to  a  mirror  that 
gave  back  her  blushing  cheek,  to  arrange  the  silken  ringlets 
which  had  been  a  little  disturbed  by  her  meeting  with  her 
former  friend  and  cousin. 

When  she  descended  to  the  parlour,  she  found  her  kins- 
man engaged  in  earnest  conversation  with  her  mother.  He 
rose  on  her  entrance,  and  gracefully  offering  her  his  seat  on 
17 


250  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

the  sofa,  continued  the  subject  which  she  had  apparently 
for  a  moment  interrupted. 

"I  perceive,"  he  said,  "that  beautiful  and  mysterious 
little  being  is  still  under  your  protection,"  glancing  slightly 
toward  Olivia,  who  was  sitting  in  a  recessed  window. 
"  May  I  inquire  if  she  will  return  with  you  home?" 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  "  if  I  may  rely  upon 
the  letters  I  have  recently  received  from  her  connections  in 
Paris.  The  cloud  of  mystery  in  which  she  was  enveloped 
when  you  last  saw  her  has  been  partially  dispersed.  She 
is  now  no  longer  forlorn  and  friendless,  as  when  she  was 
first  confided  to  my  care.  By  the  death  of  a  near  relative, 
she  has  become  entitled  to  a  considerable  estate;  and  this 
circumstance,  with  the  accounts  they  have  received  of  her 
exceeding  beauty,  and  singular  talents,  has  determined  her 
friends,  as  they  now  call  themselves,  to  request  her  speedy 
return  to  them.  She  is  devoted  to  her  country,  to  the 
memory  of  her  parents  and  her  brother;  and  I  believe  it 
would  give  her  more  pleasure  to  wreathe  a  garland  of  immor- 
telles for  them  within  the  precincts  of  Pere  la  Chaise,  than 
the  most  delightful  amusement  could  afford  to  one  less  sad. 
But  she  knows  we  are  speaking  of  her." 

And  in  truth,  by  that  singular  instinct,  if  it  may  be  so 
called,  by  which  those  who  have  been  visited  with  her  mis- 
fortune, know  when  they  are  the  objects  of  attention,  Olivia 
had  perceived  that  she  occupied  their  thoughts  and  conver- 
sation. A  slight  blush  tinged  the  almost  marble  hue  of  her 
cheek,  as  she  rose  and  glided  softly  from  the  loom.  With 
the  benevolence  which  characterized  her  every  action,  Mrs. 
Leslie  rose  and  followed  her,  saying,  as  she  departed, 

"  As  Olivia  has  discovered  that  we  were  speaking  of  her, 
it  is  but  fair  to  let  her  know  the  substance  of  our  conversa- 
tion." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         251 

"It  is  indeed  singular,"  said  Charles,  drawing  his  chair 
nearer  the  sofa,  doubtless  for  the  purpose  of  conversing  with 
more  facility  with  his  lovely  cousin,  "  to  see  such  rare 
beauty  in  a  little  moving  statue.  I  have  never  seen  so  ex- 
quisite a  model  in  miniature.  There  is  something  marvel- 
lously beautiful  in  the  contrast  of  those  bright  dark  eyes  and 
exquisitely  pencilled  brows,  with  the  alabaster  hue,  '  if  hue 
that  may  be  called  which  hue  has  none,'  of  her  complexion. 
How  radiantly  lovely  she  appeared  a  few  minutes  ago, 
when  that  faint  tinge  of  rose  appeared  on  her  cheek,  like 
the  beam  of  the  setting  sun  on  the  Alpine  snow.  Is  it 
possible  there  can  be  any  feeling  under  that  ordinarily  quiet, 
cold  exterior?" 

"  It  is  said  that  Etna  is  covered  with  snow  as  well  as 
Mont  Blanc,"  said  Mary,  smiling.  "  But  to  answer  your 
question,"  she  added,  more  gravely,  "  Olivia  has  feeling — 
she  is  affectionate  and  grateful,  and  any  marked  kindness  is 
never  forgotten  by  her.  When  she  designates  me,  it  is  by 
placing  her  hand  on  her  heart.  She  loves  with  the  simpli- 
city of  a  child,  and  with  her  whole  soul;  and  I  have  often 
heard  my  mother  express  a  fear,  that  when  she  is  withdrawn 
from  the  quiet  circle  in  which  she  has  hitherto  moved,  and 
is  thrown  more  into  the  world,  the  professions  of  its  heart- 
less votaries  may  be  misunderstood  by  her,  and  that  she 
may  form  some  hopeless  attachment  which  will  perhaps 
cost  her  her  reason  or  life.  I  am,  however,  answering  your 
question  rather  too  much  at  length." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Charles:  "  that  may  not  be  when  you 
are  the  speaker  and  I  the  listener.  But  you  cannot  surely 
have  any  faith  in  the  idea  of  a  broken  heart;  trust  me,  that 
is  a  chimera,  fit  only  for  love-sick  youths  to  believe,  until 
they  are  cured  of  their  credulity  by  the  sober  realities  of 
life.  If  you  are  so  forgetful  of  our  former  friendship,  and 


252        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

treat  me  with  such  coldness,"  he  continued,  as  Mary  with- 
drew the  hand  he  had  gently  imprisoned  in  his  own,  "I 
shall  be  compelled  to  pay  my  devoirs  at  the  shrine  of  another 
divinity;  and  as  this  lilile  Venus  approaches  both  in  beauty 
and  colouring  the  'statue  that  enchants  the  world,'  I  think 
I  shall  dedicate  myself  to  her." 

Mary  shook  her  head — 

«*  Thoughtless  as  ever,  Charles,"  she  said.  "  But  were 
I  to  say  anything  on  this  subject,  you  might  suppose  me 
jealous  of  the  admiration  which  you  have  expressed  to  me 
of  this  beautiful  statue;  and  which  she,  with  far  more  than 
the  ordinary  ease  'with  which  such  expressive  glances  are 
understood,  read  in  those  you  bestowed  on  her — all,  nay, 
perhaps,  much  more  than  you  have  said  to  me." 

The  re-entrance  of  Mrs.  Leslie  at  this  moment  arrested 
the  reply  that  Charles  was  about  to  make.  Remarking  the 
lateness  of  the  hour,  and  apologizing  for  his  interruption 
of  their  morning  avocations,  he  took  his  leave,  after  receiving 
a  kind  invitation  to  repeat  his  visits  to  the  cottage  frequently 
during  his  sojourn  in  the  valley. 

It  may  be  easily  conjectured,  that  Charles  availed  himself 
of  the  permission  thus  frankly  and  kindly  given.  Notwith- 
standing the  light  and  playful  manner  in  which  he  conversed 
with  his  lovely  cousin,  a  deeper  feeling  was  awakened  in 
his  heart,  in  looking  on  this  fair  creature,  whom  a  few  years 
before  he  had  loved  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  youthful 
passion,  and  now  beheld  in  the  full  bloom  of  beauty.  With 
the  confidence,  that  a  very  handsome  and  rather  vain  cavalier 
is  apt  to  indulge,  he  had  not  for  a  moment  permitted  the 
idea  to  cross  his  mind,  that  she  was  not  equally  well  pleased 
with  the  heightened  grace  of  his  manners,  and  improved 
elegance  of  his  person;  and  before  he  had  traversed  half 
the  distance  between  the  cottage  and  his  lodgings  in  the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDA17.  253 

village,  he  had  formed  a  thousand  plans  for  the  future,  over 
all  which  his  charming  cousin  should  preside.  It  was  true 
that  there  was  something  rather  too  reserved  in  her  manner 
toward  one  who  had  formerly  been  her  friend  and  playmate; 
but  that  was  perhaps  occasioned  by  her  instinctive  percep- 
tion of  the  depth  of  his  attachment  to  her,  or  she  might 
have  been  offended  by  the  familiarity  with  which  he  met 
her  after  their  long  separation.  He  did  not  doubt,  however 
that  a  day  would  suffice  for  their  reconciliation.  In  the 
words  of  Cardinal  Mazarine,  he  said,  "Ze  temps  et  moi." 
"This  shall  be  my  motto,"  said  Charles,  as  he  reached 
his  door:  "and  if  I  remain  in  this  dull  region  a  month,  I 
shall  consider  the  time  well  spent  that  ensures  my  favour 
with  a  creature  so  gifted." 


Many  successive  mornings  found  Charles  a  visitor  at  the 
cottage,  improving  well,  as  he  thought,  the  opportunity  thus 
allowed  him  of  cultivating  the  acquaintance  and  good 
opinion  of  its  interesting  inmates.  His  gay  and  lively 
sallies  amused  Mrs.  Leslie,  while  the  careless  playfulness 
of  his  manner  concealed  the  depth  of  his  passion  for  her 
beautiful  daughter.  To  Olivia  his  attentions  were  un- 
bounded: he  soon  learned  to  converse  with  her  with  perfect 
facility,  and  as  an  avenue  to  her  favour  he  neglected  not  to 
cultivate  the  good  will  of  her  graceful  little  favourite,  who 
returned  his  caresses  with  interest.  Mary,  the  ingenuous 
and  guileless  Mary,  was  the  only  one  of  the  little  group 
who  harboured  a  suspicion  of  these  pleasing  arts.  Her 
noble  nature  scorned  the  least  approach  to  coquetry,  and 
she  wished  sincerely  for  some  suitable  occasion,  to  dissipate 
the  impression  she  could  not  doubt  her  kinsman  had  received, 
that  he  had  only  to  ask,  in  order  to  receive  her  heart  and 
hand.  But  how  was  this  to  be  done?  He  constantly 


254  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

alluded  to  their  former  childish  intimacy,  and  as  long  as  he 
placed  their  friendship  on  that  ground,  and  alluded  as  he 
often  did  to  his  relationship  with  her,  it  would  have  been 
prudery  to  refuse  him  the  pleasure  of  conversing  with  her, 
of  accompanying  her  in  a  morning  ride,  or  an  evening  pro- 
menade in  their  host's  neatly  kept  grounds,  which  were 
more  extensive  than  so  small  an  establishment  seemed  to 
warrant,  and  were  laid  out  according  to  his  ideas  of  English 
taste,  in  which  he  had  been  much  aided  by  Jiis  good  wife. 
She  had  occupied  many  days  of  her  youth,  in  planting 
hedges  on  each  side  of  gravel  walks,  all  of  which  led,  though 
in  various  directions,  from  the  door  of  the  cottage  to  a  fine 
grove  of  linden  trees,  as  fondly  cherished  as  her  blooming 
Annette,  and  to  which  the  growth  of  forty  years  had  given 
considerable  stateliness.  Near  this  grove  a  summer  house 
had  been  constructed,  rather  rudely  it  is  true,  as  old  Rudolph 
himself  was  the  architect,  yet  the  framework  of  the  building 
signified  little,  while  it  was  tapestried  within,  and  ornament- 
ed without  by  the  dark  green  foliage  and  crimson  blossoms 
of  the  woodbine,  the  delicate  bloom  of  the  clematis,  and 
the  silver  stars  and  fragrant  breath  of  the  jasmine.  It  may 
be  easily  supposed  that  this  spot  was  not  without  its  attrac- 
tion to  the  inmates  of  the  cottage,  and  that  they  often  sought 
in  its  refreshing  shade  a  refuge  from  the  rays  even  of  the 
declining  sun.  Yet  Charles  found  some  difficulty  in  per- 
suading his  fair  cousin  to  spend  only  a  few  minutes  with 
him  there,  and  observed,  not  without  some  apprehension, 
that  Mary  was  always  happier  when  their  interviews  were 
observed  by  Olivia  or  her  mother. 

"  Do  you  not  walk  to-day,  chere  cousine,"  said  he,  as  he 
made  his  appearance  in  the  parlour  one  morning,  with  his 
usual  graceful  entre,  and  inwardly  felicitating  himself  on 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.  255 

finding  Mary  and  her  harp  its  only  occupants.  "  The  air 
is  soft  and  balmy,  and  it  is  beautiful — beautiful  as — 

"What?"  said  Mary,  colouring  at  the  expression  with 
which  the  words  were  uttered. 

"  Nay,  do  not  blush  so  prettily,  ray  sweet  coz,  or  it  will 
destroy  my  argument  for  tempting  you  to  walk — namely, 
the  fear  that  your  roses  would  wither,  without  fresh  air.  I 
was  only  going  to  repeat  the  words  of  a  witty  friend,  who, 
when  at  a  loss  for  some  expression  to  signify  his  admiration, 
always  says,  'beautiful!  as  the  face  of  a  woman!'  But  on 
farther  reflection,"  he  added,  "  I  believe  the  sun  is  a  little 
too  warm,  and  this  trellised  window  affords  a  charming 
air."  Drawing  a  chair  near  to  her  own — "  d-propos  of  airs, 
your  harp  reminds  me  of  the  land  of  song.  Did  you  visit 
Venice  during  your  sojourn  in  Italy?" 

"Our  visit  there  was  very  brief,"  said  Mary — "we  had 
hardly  time  to  glance  at  its  stately  palaces,  or  to  hear  the 
song  of  the  gondoliers,  before  we  were  hurried  away.  I 
had  not  even  time  to  select  a  chain  of  the  delicate  workman- 
ship for  which  its  artisans  are  celebrated,  and  for  which  I 
had  an  especial  fancy." 

"  A  most  fortunate  circumstance  for  me,"  said  Charles, 
"  as  it  emboldens  me  to  make  an  offering  which,  for  several 
days  past,  I  have  been  seeking  an  opportunity  to  present;" 
producing  at  the  same  moment  a  small  casket,  which  opened 
with  a  concealed  spring,  as  he  held  it  towards  her.  It  con- 
tained two  biacelets,  of  the  rarest  and  most  exquisite  work- 
manship, one  of  them  a  singular  assemblage  of  gems  and 
finely  wrought  precious  marbles,  or  pierres  dures — the  other 
formed  of  a  number  of  small  chains,  so  minute  as  almost 
to  require  the  aid  of  a  microscope  to  distinguish  the  links, 
the  clasp  being  beneath  a  small  but  perfect  miniature  like- 
ness of  himself,  to  which  the  artist,  with  inimitable  skill, 


256  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

had  added  many  beauties,  undiscernable  even  in  the  hand- 
some original,  without  destroying  the  resemblance:  the 
miniature  was  surrounded  with  the  purest  brilliants. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  I  cannot  have  forgotten  the  size  of 
that  fair  and  rounded  arm,"  offering  to  clasp  the  bracelet 
which  bore  his  likeness  on  it. 

Mary  blushed  and  hesitated.  "  Your  offering  is  too 
costly,  Charles.  Why  dicLjou  not  bring  me  a  rose?  I 
should  have  preferred  it  greatly." 

"  Because  roses  will  wither,  fairest,  and  then  the  donor 
might  be  forgotten.  Is  it  possible,  that  you  mean  to  refuse 
so  small  a  gratification  to  your  friend,  your  old  playmate, 
your  cousin?"  He  added,  in  a  voice  that  showed  his  dis- 
appointment, as  she  still  seemed  to  hesitate,  "  you  will  not, 
you  cannot  be  so  cruel!" 

Mary  was  touched  at  the  tone  in  which  the  last  words 
were  spoken.  "  I  meant  not  to  wound  you  by  my  re- 
fusal," she  said;  and  as  she  spoke  the  fair  arm  was  extended 
toward  him. 

"  You  will  then  wear  this,  for  my  sake,"  said  Charles, 
"  and  when  you  look  on  it,  think  of  one  who  offers  it  aa  a 
souvenir  of  the  past;  and,"  he  added,  in  a  lower,  softer,  and 
more  earnest  tone,  "  a  pledge  of  the  future." 

Mary  withdrew  her  arm  decidedly.  "  On  those  terms, 
Charles,  I  cannot  accept  your  offering — and — indeed — I 
have  wished  for  some  days," — she  paused  and  hesitated, 
in  extreme  embarrassment,  for  the  noble  ingenuousness  of 
her  nature  strove  wilh  the  bashful  pride  of  a  maiden's 
heart.  The  former  would  have  had  the  victory,  but  for 
the  entrance  of  Olivia,  who  returned  at  this  critical  moment. 
Charles  concealed  his  extreme  vexation  beneath  the  tone  of 
careless  raillery  he  knew  so  well  how  to  assume. 

"  Why  this  is  prudery,"  he  said,  "  downright,  prudery, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         257 

ma  copricieuse.'  I  have  made  many  inquiries  of  one  of  our 
mutual  fiiends  concerning  you,  and  though  I  confess  his 
replies  were  not  very  satisfactory,  I  should  at  least  have 
supposed  he  would  have  given  me  some  information  re- 
specting this  new  and  unexpected  trait  in  your  character." 

"  Made  inquiries  concerning  me?"  said  Mary,  evidently 
at  a  loss  for  something  better  to  say. 

"  Yes,  of  you,  sweet,  blushing  rose!  I  inquired  of  our 
friend  Edward  Montague,  whom  I  lately  met  in  Paris, 
and  who  had  the  felicity  of  spending  some  months  in  Flo- 
rence during  the  past  winter." 

As  he  spoke,  he  looked  with  a  penetrating  glance  at  his 
fair  cousin;  but  Mary  at  that  moment  stooped  to  raise  a 
sheet  of  music  that  the  air  from  the  window  had  wafted 
from  it?  place  near  her  harp. 

"  I  see,"  he  continued,  "  you  are  determined,  by  your 
cruelty,  to  drive  me  to  the  shrine  of  the  little  Venus." 

As  he  spoke,  he  approached  Olivia,  and  returned  the 
caress  -of  her  favourite  by  joining  the  costly  bracelets  to- 
gether and  clasping  them  around  the  white  and  slender 
throat  of  the  little  animal,  at  the  same  moment  gently  plac- 
ing her  hand  on  the  clasp,  to  indicate  that  the  offering  was 
made  to  her.  Again,  the  beautiful  rose  tint,  which  had 
attracted  his  admiration,  gleamed  brightly  on  her  cheek, — 
she  bent  over  her  little  favourite,  and  unclasping  the  gem- 
med bracelets,  examined  them  with  fixed  attention.  Her 
proficiency  in  painting,  showed  her  at  a  glance  the  exquisite 
finish  of  the  miniature;  and  the  gems  by  which  it  was 
surrounded  were  unheeded.  Could  a  deeper  feeling  lurk 
under  the  expression  of  unqualified  admiration,  which  ani- 
mated her  beautiful  features,  as  she  gazed  upon  this  mar- 
vellous work  of  art?  Could  it  be  that  the  young  stranger 
who  had  almost  abandoned  his  own  country  for  the  sunny 


258        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

land  she  loved  so  dearly,  and  who  brought  with  him  from 
the  spot  which  she  had  been  accustomed  to  regard  as  an 
earthly  paradise,  so  many  graces  and  accomplishments, 
had  awakened  a  feeling  in  that  youthful  heart  unknown, 
unfelt  before?  This  idea  certainly  occurred  to  Mary,  as 
she  looked  on  the  blushing  cheek  of  Olivia,  but  Charles 
was  too  much  absorbed  in  his  recent  vexation  to  think  of 
anything  else  at  that  moment.  With  his  usual  self-posses- 
sion, however,  he  took  his  leave,  and  endeavoured,  by  every 
means  afforded  him,  to  dissipate  the  unpleasant  impressions 
he  had  received  during  his  visit  of  the  morning. 


A  stroll  through  the  wild  and  romantic  environs  of  the 
village,  and  the  exhilarating  freshness  of  the  mountain  air, 
soon  restored  his  self-complacency.  He  looked  on  the 
affair  of  the  bracelet  only  as  a  momentary  caprice,  which 
needed  no  farther  explanation.  The  following  morning 
found  him  again  at  the  cottage,  apparently  in  one  of  his 
gayest  moods.  Mary  flattered  herself  that  he  perfectly 
understood  the  explanation  she  desired  to  make  of  her 
feelings  toward  him,  and  that  a  few  hours  had  sufficed  to 
reconcile  him  to  the  discovery.  She  therefore  felt  more  at 
ease  with  him,  and  listened  to  his  lively  sallies  with  far 
more  pleasure  than  she  had  hitherto  done.  The  absence 
of  Olivia,  and  her  mother,  who  excused  herself  soon  after 
his  arrival,  as  she  was  making  up  her  despatches  for  her 
absent  son,  Mary  now  regarded  with  indifference,  and  she 
offered  to  beguile  an  hour,  which  she  feared  might  be 
otherwise  rather  dull,  in  playing  for  him  some  of  the  new 
music  with  which  he  had  furnished  her  on  his  first  arrival. 

"  How  does  it  happen,  Charles,"  said  Maiy,  rising  from 
her  harp,  after  striking  the  last  chords  of  a  fashionable 
opera  he  had  brought  her,  and  resuming  her  silken  tapestry 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         259 

on  which  the  expanding  flowers  and  buds  and  tendrils  were 
beginning  to  rival  the  glories  of  a  Flemish  picture,  "how 
does  it  happen  that  you  find  Paris  so  enchanting?" 

"  Enchanting!"  echoed  diaries,  in  a  voice  of  surprise; 
"•  is  it  possible,  my  fair  coz,  that  you,  with  all  your  exqui- 
site tastes,  can  ask  such  a  question?  Methinks  an  answer 
might  be  found  in  the  charms  of  that  divine  air,  whose 
ravishing  beauties  still  penetrate  my  soul  through  my  ear, 
and  which,  though  now  as  delightful  as  a  harp  and  fairy 
touch  can  make  it,  loses  nothing  by  being  heard  arnid  the 
splendours  of  accompanying  scenery,  and  the  rich  and 
varied  harmony  of  the  finest  artistes,  vocal  and  instrumental, 
that  Europe  can  afford." 

"•  I  can  easily  imagine,  Charles,"  said  Mary,  "  that  you 
may  find  pleasure  in  listening  to  fine  music,  though  I  think 
your  expressions  are  rather  extravagant,  and  pardon  me, 
almost  profane.  I  do  not  like  to  hear  the  word  '  divine' 
applied  quite  so  often  to  things  which  appear  to  me  un- 
worthy of  the  appellation;  but  you  have  not  yet  satisfactorily 
answered  my  question." 

"  I  will  answer  it,  sweet  coz,"  replied  Charles,  "  and  as 
much  at  length  as  you  will,  provided  you  promise  not  to 
interrupt  me  by  a  homily,  if  I  should  chance  to  bring  a  few 
divinities  on  the  stage.  I  am  glad,  however,  that  our  friend 
Montague  is  not  here.  I  protest  his  solemn  air  is  worse 
than  any  sermon  you  can  preach,  Mary;  when  I  speak  of 
the  pleasure  of  a  gargon  at  Paris,  he  looks  as  cold  and 
stern  as  the  Righi  in  the  month  of  December.  I  fear  he 
has  infected  you  with  some  of  his  precious  ideas." 

Mary  blushed.  "  You  are  unjust,  Charles,  very  unjust, 
to  one  who  really  loves  you,  though  he  believes,  that  with 
all  your  boasted  happiness  you  are  not  happy  in  Paris. 
He  thinks  that  the  life  you  lead  there,  though  it  may  arnuse 


FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 


you  for  a  time,  will  add  neither  to  your  stock  of  wisdom, 
virtue, — or — or — anything  else  that  an  honourable  and  up- 
right man  should  endeavour  to  attain." 

Mary  paused;  for  at  the  conclusion  of  her  speech,  she 
encountered  a  keen  and  penetrating  glance  from  Charles, 
whose  brilliant  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  with  an  expres- 
sion she  had  never  observed  in  them  befoie.  There  was  a 
sarcastic  and  haughty  curl  of  the  lip  in  his  half  smile,  that 
gave  her  a  feeling  almost  of  dread.  She  blushed  yet  more 
deeply,  and  bending  her  eyes  on  her  work,  seemed  silently 
absorbed  in  its  progress.  An  unpleasant  silence  of  a  minute 
succeeded,  when  Charles,  in  a  deep,  and  rather  subdued 
voice,  said — 

•'I  am  really  vastly  obliged  to  Montague  for  his  affec- 
tionate solicitude;  doubtless  you  concur  with  him  in  opi- 
nion?" 

"  I!"  said  Mary,  "  oh  no,  I  know  nothing  about  it;  you 
have  not  even  answered  the  simple  question  I  asked  you 
this  morning." 

"What  was  it?"  said  Charles,  resuming  his  usual  air  of 
gaiety  and  thoughtlessness, — "  oh,  I  remember,  you  asked 
me  why  I  found  Paris  enchanting?  You  have  so  often 
made  this  inquiry,  or  something  very  like  it,  that  I  believe 
I  must  answer  it  at  length.  Would  you  like  a  description 
of  the  life  of  a  fashionable  man, — like  myself,  par  exemple 
— for  a  day,  or  a  week?" 

"I  will  hear  it  for  a  day,"  returned  Mary,  "  and  then,  if 
it  is  sufficiently  interesting,  you  may  go  on  to  the  end  of 
the  week." 

"  As  to  that  matter,"  said  Charles,  "  I  must  confess  there 
is  not  quite  so  great  a  variety  as  we  generally  boast  of;  but 
you  shall  judge  for  yourself.  Where  shall  the  curtain  rise 
first? — suppose  we  begin  the  drama  at  the  cafe  dc  Paris. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         261 

Imagine  a  few  friends  in  petit  comite — Sir  Harry  V.,  Lord 
L.,  Col.  C.,  and  your  humble  servant  taking  possession  of 
one  of  the  choicest  appartcmens  of  this  pleasantest  cafe  on 
the  Boulevards,  at  six  o'clock  precises;  and,  according  to 
our  precise  arrangement,  meeting  the  sonp  and  salmon  at 
the  door  of  our  salle-a-manger.  Then,  with  light  hearts 
and  good  appetites,  sitting  down  to  a  dinner,  not  ordinary 
and  tavern-like,  but  wreathed  with  flowers  and  sparkling 
with  lights,  like  a  Grecian  feast.  Imagine  us  enjoying  all 
the  exquisite  delicacies  of  the  cuisine  Francaise  and  the 
ambrosial  streams  of  purest  wine — not  the  vulgar  produc- 
tions of  Oporto,  Xeres,  and  Madeira,  but  the  more  ethe- 
rial  charms  of  Burgundy,  Chateau-Margaux,  Champagne, 
Johannisberg,  vin  de  Faille,  Hermitage" 

Mary  interrupted  him  by  laughing.  "  Really,  Charles," 
said  she,  "one  would  suppose  from  the  interest  you  mani- 
fest, that  you  were  describing  the  fabled  nectar  in  one  or 
the  other  of  these  favourites.  But  as  I  cannot  appreciate 
their  merit?,  I  will,  if  you  please,  exchange  them  'for  a 
little  of  the  conversation  that  seasons  the  entertainment." 

"  Conversation!"  said  Charles;  "  you  cannot  doubt  that 
the  '  feast  of  reason  and  flow  of  soul'  could  be  wanting? 
The  attic  salt  is  the  only  sort  of  which  a  profusion  is  ad- 
missible at  a  French  dinner.  Let  me  see  if  I  can  give  you 
a  sample:" — 

"  Why  were  you  not  at  Long  Champs  to-day,  Lennox? 
I  should  have  had  an  opportunity  of  showing  you  my 
divinity,  the  youthful  and  elegant  Madame  P.;  I  should 
have  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  proving  to  you  the  favour  I 
am  shown  in  that  quarter;  though  I  was  near  paying  dear 
for  it  to-day,  by  the  loss  of  life  or  limb,  or  perhaps  both,  in 
approaching  too  near  her  coupe.  Centaur  as  I  am,  Wild- 
fire actually  prevented  me  from  acknowledging  the  salute 


262        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

she  gave  me,  by  touching  with  her  lips  the  tips  of  her  rosy 
fingers.  She  is  certainly  a  nice  creature — a  perfect  amour, 
— I  would  lay  a  wager  of  a  hundred  Napoleons  to  a  centime, 
that  she  is  a  thousand  times  more  lovely  than  your  boasted 
and  beautiful  Mary." 

Mary  started,  and  the  eloquent  blood  mounted  to  her 
temples.  She  raised  her  eyes  for  an  instant,  and  then  again 
busied  herself  with  her  work.  Charles  continued  silent  for 
some  minutes. 

"  Well!"  said  Mary. 

"  Well!"  repeated  Charles,  "  you  do  not  seem  to  relish 
my  description,  ma  belle  cousine — what  has  given  so  bril- 
liant a  tinge  to  your  delicate  complexion?" 

"  Charles,"  said  Mary,  raising  her  eyes,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  sweet  ingenuousness,  "  there  are  doubtless  many 
Marys  to  whom  the  epithet  of  'beautiful,'  would  be  more 
applicable  than  to  me.  Yet  I  cannot  help  supposing  it 
probable  that  your  friend  alluded  to  me." 

"  Supposing  that  you  have  supposed  rightly,"  said 
Charles,  half  doubtingly,  half  playfully. 

"In  that  case,"  said  Mary,  "  I  confess  I  should  not  feel 
especially  flattered  by  such  a  notice  from  such  a  quarter. 
I  could  not  esteem  it  a  very  great  compliment  to  be  so 
lightly  named  by  one,  who,  though  he  may  be  your  friend, 
certainly  from  the  specimen  you  have  given  of  his  conver- 
sation, has  shown  that  he  possesses  not  a  few  of  the  attri- 
butes of  a  coxcomb." 

"  Most  gravely  and  sagely  spoken!  Montague  himself 
could  not  have  made  a  speech  more  solemn.  I  shall  begin 
again  to  harbour  the  suspicions  that  first  raised  those  man- 
tling blushes  on  your  transparent  cheek:  take  care  that  I  do 
not  penetrate  all  your  thoughts  through  his  brilliant  but 
slight  veil." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         263 

Again  he  paused,  and  again  the  embarrassment  of  his/air 
audi tress  was  manifest. 

"  You  have  not  finished  a  day  yet,"  she  said,  at  length, 
"  though  you  promised  me  a  week  in  Paris,  if  I  would 
listen.  You  have  not  even  finished  your  feast,  but  I  believe 
that  has  lasted  long  enough;  let  us  suppose  it  over,  and  the 
cloth  removed." 

"  It  would  be  most  uninteresting  to  pursue  the  process  that 
far,"  said  Charles,  "for  it  has  been  many  centuries  since 
that  antediluvian  custom,  as  well  as  the  barbarous  antiquity 
of  drinking  toasts  and  healths  has  been  exploded  in  Paris, 
even  if  it  ever  existed.  The  bois  d'allonges  would  cut  a 
sorry  figure  by  the  side  of  our  polished  old  tables.  No,  no 
— we  do  not  thus  drain  our  cups  of  pleasure  to  the  dregs; 
we  leave  the  feast,  with  all  its  decorations,  its  garlands,  its 
lights,  its  bronzes  dores,  porcelaine  de  Sevres,  vermeil, 
cristaux,  fyc.,  only  to  exchange  this  for  a  scene  still  more 
delightful — for,  we  are  never  at  a  loss  for  occupation  at  this 
witching  hour.  The  opera,  the  theatres,  Frescati's,  the 
salon,  the  bal  a  1'ambassade — or — or  a  thousand  other  equally 
attractive  places,  engage  us  for  the  next  six  or  eight  hours. 
These  are  the  hours  in  which  a  man  of  fashion  lives,  in  the 
rest  of  the  twenty-four,  he  only  exists.  At  three  or  four 
in  the  morning,  behold  me  au  logis,  where,  with  the  aid  of 
croisees  bien  fermees,  and  protected  yet  more  effectually 
from  the  intrusion  of  the  light  by  the  ample  folds  of  Lyons 
satin,  I  enjoy  the  luxuries  of  a  French  couch,  secure  within 
its  graceful  canopy  from  all  that  may  prevent  the  influences 
of  that  most  welcome  visitor  Morpheus.  I  know  not  exactly 
whether  I  should  acknowledge  my  hour  of  rising;  it  is 
indeed  rather  too  soon  for  a  fashionable  man,  but  owing,  I 
presume,  to  early  habit,  I  have  an  inveterate  practice  of 
awakening  precisely  at  eleven.  In  vain  does  Dupont  don 


264        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

his  softest  pantouflles,  and  step  with  cat-like  pace  into  my 
chamber;  he  finds  me  invariably  striking  my  repeater,  which 
gives  me  the  hour  of  eleven.  *  What  is  the  hour,  Dupont?' 
4  Onzes  heures  precises,  Monsieur.'  '  How  is  the  weather 
this  morning?'  '  Un  peu  orageux,  Monsieur.'  'Ah!  I 
thought  so;  a  man  of  fashion  is  a  perfect  barometer!  Well. 
have  you  read  the  journals  this  morning. — what  news  is 
there?'  '  No  sare;  dat  is  to  say — yes  sare;  on  a  attrappe 
qualre  voleurs  dans  la  rue  St.  Dennis,  et  trois  dans  la  rue 
St.  Martin — la  grande  revue  .|nra  lieu  demain,  et*le  bal  de 
1'opera  au  profit  cles  indigens  le  dimanche  en  huit,  voila 
tout,  Monsieur.'  '  Why,  Dupont,  that  is  exactly  what  you 
told  me  yesterday,  whtn  I  asked  you  the  same  question.' 
'  No  sare;  dat  is  to  say  yes  sare;  it  is  de  nouvelles  of  dis 
morning — je  vous  assure  parole  d'honneur — it  is  de  most 
perfect  true,  de  most  exacte  verite".  Mais,  Monsieur,  le 
bain  est  pret,  et  le  dejuner  vill  be  ready  in  one  petite  demi 
heurc.'  The  petite  demi  heure  passed,  and  my  tasteful 
cabarat  of  Sevres  and  vermeil  removed,  I  await  my  usual 
visitors  in  my  robe  dc  chambre  brodee,  and  pantouffles  de 
velours.  4  Monsieur,  voici,  M.  Le  Coiffeur,  M.  Le  Tailleur, 

M.  Le  Gantier,  M.  Le  Bijoutier,  M.  Le .'     '  Bah!  why 

did  you  let  all  these  people  in?  Bid  them  wait  in  the  anti- 
chamber,  and  send  the  jeweller  to  me.'  Exit  Dupont,  and 
entre  M.  Le  Bijoutier.  It  would  be  impossible  to  select  a 
jewelled  cane,  and  a  chaine  (/'or  in  less  time  than  an  hour 
and  a  half.  This  important  matter  accomplished,  there  is 
no  leisure  for  the  rest.  I  have  a  rendezvous  aux  Tuileries 
at  two,  and  there  is  barely  time  for  the  toilette.  *  Dismiss 
those  people  in  the  anti-chamber,  Dupont,  et  defend  la 
porte.'  '  Yes  sare — dat  is  to  say  no  sare — dere  is  a  gentil- 
homme  who  wishes  to  speak  wid  you,  Monsieur.'  'I  am 
not  in,  Dupont — or  rather  I  am  not  up.  No,  I  believe  I 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         265 

am  au  bois  de  Boulogne.  That  will  be  far  enough  to  banish 
this  intruder,  I  hope."  Soon  after  I  overhear  the  following 
colloquy  in  the  ante-chamber.  'Monsieur  est  sorti! — are 
you  sure  of  it?'  '  Oui,  certainement,  Monsieur, — depuis 
dix  heures.'  '  Oh!  you  must  be  mistaken — he  never  rises 
until  eleven.'  'Mon  dieu,  Monsieur!  I  know,  certainement 
— je  suis  son  valet;  il  est  sorti — il  est  au  bois  de  Boulogne 
— depuis  dix  heures,  parole  d'honneur,  je  vous  assure,  it  is 
de  most  perfect  true — de  most  exacte  verite!'  My  visitor 
departs,  and  in  an  hour  more  I  am  ready  for  the  Tuileries. 
A  lounge  there,  a  ride  en  verite  au  bois  de  Boulogne,  and 
a  visit  or  two  bring  me  again  to  six  o'clock.  Shall  I  give 
you  another  day?" 

"  Thank  you — I  believe  this  will  do.  But  is  this  a  fair 
sample?  Are  all  your  days  spent  in  this  manner?" 

"  It  is  a  fair  sample,  most  fair  coz." 

"  And  on  Sunday?" 

"  Oh,  that  makes  no  difference  in  Paris,  you  know;  except 
that  the  most  delightful  operas,  and  the  most  brilliant  balls 
are  reserved  for  that  day." 

"  And  so,  in  this  agreeable  division  of  time,  there  are  no 
moments,  far  less  hours,  left  for  reading,  reflection,  corre- 
spondence, deeds  of  charity,  devotion " 

"  Stop!  stop!  lovely  preacher;  remember  our  compact.  I 
cannot  accept  a  sermon  in  return  for  all  my  confessions." 

"Well,  I  will  not  give  you  one;  but,  Charles,  are  there 
no  hours  or  moments,  in  which  a  suspicion  crosses  your 
mind  that  all  is  not  right,  and  that  this  is  not  the  sort  of  life 
a  rational  being  would  be  content  to  lead?" 

"  An   infringement  on  our  compact   again! — yet  I  will 

answer."     As  he  spoke,  a  cloud  passed  over  his  brow — he 

pressed  his  hand  an  instant  over  his  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out 

some  fearful  vision,  as  he  continued  in  an  altered  tone — "  I 

18 


266        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

will  acknowledge  that  impertinent  thoughts  sometimes 
intrude  on  my  gayest  hours;  that  I  feel  as  if  the  sword  of 
Damocles  were  suspended  over  my  head;  and  that  there 
have  been  moments  when  I  would  almost  have  exchanged 
my  delirious  pleasures,  for  the  mortal  repose  of  Pe re  la 
Chaise"  He  said  these  words  rapidly  and  earnestly,  and 
an  expression  almost  of  despair  usurped  the  place  of  his 
usually  gay  and  careless  smile.  "  Are  you  answered  now, 
Mary?" 

"  I  am,  indeed;  but  I  did  not  intend  to  give  you  pain. 
One  more  question,  and  my  inquisition  is  finished.  What 
becomes  of  these  fashionable  people,  if  they  happen  to  be 
ill?  I  suppose  they  are  not  exempted  from  all  human 
infirmities." 

"  No,  that  is  very  certain;  indeed,  I  believe  they  are  rather 
more  liable  to  them  than  you  sober  people.  But  then  they 
never  permit  their  cares  to  mar  the  pleasures  of  others.  In 
this  they  are  truly  philosophical." 

"I  agree  with  them  heartily,  so  far,"  said  Mary;  "but 
there  are  moments  when  we  have  a  right  to  expect  the 
sympathy  of  our  friends.  I  think  I  have  heard  that  you 
were  once  ill  at  Paris." 

"  Not  once  only,  but  often.  I  was  once  attacked  by  the 
grippe,  in  its  most  ferocious  style;  and  have  twice  narrowly 
escaped  zfievre  nerveuse." 

"  And  did  your  friends  manifest  their  concern?" 

"  Oh  yes,  certainly.  It  is  true,  I  never  saw  them;  but 
cards  were  sent,  pour  demander;  and  they  all  congratulated 
me  on  my  recovery,  which  they  had  been  assured  was 
almost  a  miracle.  They  took  it  for  granted  that  they  would 
not  be  admitted,  and  feared  to  disturb  me.  I  am  not  sur- 
prised at  their  repugnance  to  a  sick  chamber:  pah!  the 
remembrance  of  it  is  gall  and  wormwood.  To  see  a  gay 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.  267 

youth,  whom  one  is  accustomed  to  admire  en  grande  cos- 
tume, stretched  out  like  a  cadavre;  but  it  is  enough.  How- 
ever, I  am  unjust.  Sir  Harry  V did  call  one  morning, 

and  sent  for  Dupont.  When  he  returned,  I  desired  to  know 
what  he  said.  '  Did  he  ask  after  my  health?"  '  No  sare — 
yes  sare,  dat  is  to  say,  he  desire  me  to  inform  you  dat  he 
hope  to  see  you  au  Champs  de  Mars  to-morrow,  as  he  learn 
dat  de  chevaux  sont  arrives;  de  chevaux  dat  you  import 
from  Angleterre;  and  dat  he  will  parier  one  mille  Napoleons 
contre  une  centime  dat  his  Wildfire  and  Selima  will  beat 
Daredevil  and  Mary  Leslie." 

Mary  started  from  her  seat.  "  Oh,  Charles,  is  it  possi- 
ble that  you  can  have  made  such  a  use  of  my  name?" 

Charles  threw  himself  on  one  knee,  in  an  attitude  that  a 
danseur  de  Vopera  might  have  envied. 

"Beauteous  Mary!"  he  exclaimed — detaining  her  by 
clasping  her  hand  within  both  of  his,  with  the  most  graceful 
air  of  supplication,  while  Mary,  now  really  vexed,  tried  in 
vain  to  escape — "  Fairest  of  saints!  have  I  not  made  confes- 
sion of  all  my  sins — even  of  this  last,  which  you  seem  to 
consider  the  most  heinous?  And  am  I  to  be  repaid  with 
scorn,  instead  of  receiving  absolution  from  those  lips;  or 
even  a  sign  of  the  cross  from  this  delicate  hand!"  kissing  it 
as  he  spoke. 

"  Charles,"  said  Mary,  now  overwhelmed  with  confusion, 
"  why  do  you  treat  me  so  like  a  child?  With  all  your  pro- 
fessions, you  have  proved  that  you  have  no  respect  for  me. 
Pray,  let  my  hand  go." 

"  I  cannot,  unless  you  promise  me  forgiveness,  peace, 
absolution — Mary!" 

"Anything,  anything — there  is  Olivia's  light  step;  and 
I  confess  I  would  rather  even  she  should  not  see  you  thus 
feigning  the  gallant" — 


368        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

"  Feign!"  repeated  Charles — "  but  I  obey.  Adieu  ma 
belle!"  and  after  imprinting  another  kiss  on  the  imprisoned 
hand,  he  released  her,  and  the  impatient  girl  flew  to  her 
chamber. 

Charles  retraced  his  steps  slowly  and  thoughtfully.  This 
last  interview  certainly  was  not  very  satisfactory;  and  to 
add  to  his  disquietude,  he  found  letters  on  his  table  urging 
his  immediate  return  to  Paris,  on  account  of  the  illness  of  a 
near  relative.  It  was  true  that  the  vexation  he  felt  was  not 
a  little  alleviated  by  the  reflection,  that  the  demise  of  his 
old  uncle,  whom  he  had  hardly  known,  would  leave  him 
possession  not  only  of  a  title,  but  a  superb  estate.  Yet  he 
felt  an  invincible  repugnance  to  leaving  the  valley,  until  he 
should  have  ascertained,  with  perfect  accuracy,  the  real 
state  of  his  beautiful  kinswoman's  heart. 

He  waited  only  for  the  decline  of  the  summer  sun,  and 
as  his  last  rays  tinged  the  snowy  peaks  of  the  distant  Alps, 
he  again  returned  to  the  cottage,  in  the  hope  of  finding  its 
inmates  straying  through  the  refreshing  shade  of  the  grove, 
or  among  the  secluded  walks;  and  thus  affording  him  the 
opportunity,  he  now  so  ardently  wished,  for  a  perfect  eclair- 
cissement.  As  he  had  anticipated,  he  found  the  cottage 
untenanted,  and  passed  quickly  through  one  of  the  avenues 
to  the  grove.  On  emerging  from  the  leafy  canopy  which 
shaded  and  bordered  the  walk,  he  found  himself  within  a 
short  distance  of  the  fair  object  of  his  search;  but  to  his 
infinite  surprise  and  vexation,  she  was  not,  as  he  had  fondly 
hoped,  unattended;  but  was  apparently  listening  with  evident 
pleasure,  though  with  downcast  eyes  and  a  heightened 
colour,  to  the  animated  conversation  of  another  cavalier,  and 
that  cavalier  young,  handsome,  graceful,  and  as  he  knew 
but  too  well,  in  all  more  important  matters,  a  most  for- 
midable rival.  For  an  instant,  Charles  lost  his  usual  self- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         269 

possession,  and  the  anger  and  jealousy  that  gnawed  his 
heart,  were  plainly  manifest  in  his  countenance;  but  imme- 
diately recovering  himself,  he  advanced  with  a  rapid  step, 
and  the  exclamation  of  "  Ha,  Montague!  my  ancient  friend 
and  comrade!"  In  spite  of  the  apparent  friendliness  and 
careless  gaiety  of  the  salutation,  there  was  too  much  of 
pique  and  mortification  discernible  in  his  air  and  manner, 
to  escape  the  observing  eye  of  him  to  whom  it  was  addressed. 
His  greeting  was,  however,  reciprocated  with  perhaps  less 
of  hauteur,  but  with  a  dignified,  yet  frank  and  graceful 
courtesy,  which  made  Charles  almost  ashamed  of  the  hearti- 
ness with  which  he  wished  his  rival — anywhere  but  in  his 
present  most  enviable  position.  He  was,  however,  too 
much  a  man  of  the  world  to  permit  his  feelings  to  betray 
him  into  farther  indiscretion;  and  by  the  time  they  had 
emerged  from  the  grove,  and  joined  the  rest  of  the  little 
party  in  the  summer  house,  the  conversation  had  become 
general  and  animated.  As  the  twilight  dews  began  to  de- 
scend, Mrs.  Leslie  proposed  their  return  to  the  cottage;  and 
Charles,  in  bidding  them  adieu,  remarked,  that  this  was  pro- 
bably his  last  visit,  for  he  should  leave  the  valley  on  the 
following  day. 

"  To-morrow?"  said  Mary,  with  a  smile.  "  You  have 
then  forgotten  the  promise  you  exacted  from  Olivia  and 
myself,  to  make  an  excursion  on  the  lake.  Our  good  host 
will  be  quite  heart-broken  when  he  hears  of  your  determi- 
nation; for  I  think  he  felt  a  peculiar  anxiety  to  present  us  to 
his  brother's  family  on  our  way  thither.  I  dare  say  he 
would  have  no  objection  to  an  additional  oar," — she  added, 
glancing  at  Montague,  who  readily  offered  his  services. 

"  Yes,  it  is  true,"  replied  Charles,  who  had  secrectly 
determined  at  all  hazards  to  remain  another  day,  but  who 
only  desired  to  see  if  no  objection  would  be  made  to  his 


270  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

departure,  "  I  cannot  forego  so  great  a  pleasure.     I  shall 
claim  your  promise." 


Many  revolving  and  unpleasant  thoughts  banished  the 
sweet  influences,  that  are  wont  to  "  knit  up  the  ravelled 
sleeve  of  care,"  from  the  eyes  of  our  young  hero,  after  he 
had  retired  to  rest.  He  tossed  on  his  sleepless  pillow  until 
dawn,  and  then  sank  into  a  heavy  slumber.  He  was 
aroused  by  a  tap  at  the  door;  and,  starting  up,  perceived  with 
surprise,  that  it  was  near  mid-day. 

"  You  are  late,  my  young  gallant,"  said  old  Rudolph, 
putting  his  good-humoured  face  within  the  door.  "  Our 
party  has  been  ready  and  waiting  for  the  last  hour." 

Ashamed  of  his  apparent  want  of  gallantry,  Charles 
speedily  equipped  himself  for  the  expedition,  and  following 
the  counsel  of  the  host  of  the  cottage,  he  arrayed  himself 
in  a  light,  thin  garb,  appropriate  to  the  season,  and  peculiarly 
suitable  for  the  severe  exercise  he  was  about  to  undertake. 
He  found  his  handsome  rival  again  in  possession  of  the 
field,  and  inwardly  upbraided  himself  for  permitting  him  to 
have  even  this  slight  advantage. 

The  good  host  had  provided  them  with  horses  and  another 
guide  beside  himself,  to  traverse  the  distance  between  the 
valley  and  the  far-famed  lake  of  the  forest  cantons,  in  the 
prospect  of  whose  charms  they  all  anticipated  so  much 
pleasure.  The  morning  was  gloriously  beautiful,  and  the 
pure  azure  of  the  sky  was  reflected  in  cloudless  splendour 
from  the  mirror-like  surface  of  the  lake,  as  it  broke  on  the 
view  of  the  little  party  at  a  sudden  turn  in  the  road,  or 
rather  the  broad  pathway  that  led  to  the  house  of  Rudolph's 
brother.  This  singularly  constructed  building,  presented 
all  the  grotesque  variety  of  architecture  peculiar  to  the 
canton;  yet  its  air  of  snugness  and  comfort,  the  goodly  rows 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         271 

of  bee-hives  that  found  protection  beneath  its  broad  project- 
ing eves,  the  evidences  of  plenty  revealing  themselves  on 
every  side,  made  ample  amends  for  what  might  have  been 
deemed  bad  taste;  and  its  rude  simplicity  was  soon  forgotten 
in  contemplating  the  romantic  beauty  of  its  situation.  The 
house,  or  chalet,  if  it  might  be  called  by  so  humble  a  title, 
was  placed  about  midway  the  descent  of  a  gentle  sloping 
hill,  which  terminated  at  the  water's  edge;  the  hill,  and  the 
little  fields  that  surrounded  it,  were  adorned  with  the  richest 
verdure.  In  front,  a  range  of  snow-clad  mountains  melted 
away  in  the  distance,  and  made  a  fine  contrast  with  the 
tranquil  loveliness  of  the  broad  lake;  while,  in  the  rear,  rose 
an  enormous  rock,  redeemed,  however,  from  its  savage 
wildness  by  innumerable  tufts  of  the  Alpine  rose,  the  fir 
trees  that  crowned  its  summit,  and  the  brilliancy  of  a  dash- 
ing waterfall,  that  soothed  the  ear  with  its  pleasing  though 
monotonous  sound,  and  was  broken  into  a  cloud  of  white 
mist  as  it  fell  into  the  stream,  that  was  hurrying  on  with  its 
tributary  waters  to  the  lake. 

As  soon  as  the  approach  of  our  little  party  was  perceived, 
the  inhabitants  of  the  chalet  came  out,  with  the  simple 
hospitality  which  has  always  distinguished  their  country, 
to  welcome  them.  The  family,  old  and  young,  were 
dressed  in  their  gayest  attire,  the  athletic  young  men  and 
stout  blooming  girls  in  their  holiday  costume — the  latter 
looking  still  taller,  from  their  singular  yet  pretty  head-dress, 
resembling  a  huge  butterfly  with  its  wings  erected,  or  the 
sails  of  the  paper  Nautilus.  The  good  old  hostess  regaled 
her  guests  with  the  most  delicate  of  her  cream  cheese,  the 
freshest  honey,  and  white  bread,  which  last  was  regarded 
as  no  small  luxury  in  that  wild  region;  and  the  family  only 
permitted  their  guests  to  depart,  on  the  condition  of  another 
call  on  their  return  from  their  excursion  on  the  lake.  The 


272        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

young  men  both  offered  their  services  as  oars-men,  but  our 
cavaliers  declined  their  aid;  there  could,  surely,  they  all 
agreed,  be  no  necessity  for  more  than  two  oars,  which, 
with  one  spare  hand,  could  be  easily  managed. 

"  Fair  laughs  the  morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows,"  said 
Mary,  when  they  had  skimmed  lightly  over  the  surface  for 
nearly  a  league,  and  the  fresh  air  and  beautiful  scenery  had 
inspired  them  all  with  almost  equal  gaiety. 

*•  Youth  on  the  prow,"  continued  Montague,  looking 
towards  old  Rudolph,  who  had  stationed  himself  there, 
"and  pleasure  at  the  helm,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  resign- 
ing his  oar  to  Charles,  whose  turn  it  was  to  use  it,  and 
taking  his  place  by  Mary's  side.  "  I  trust  our  good  old 
guide  does  not  anticipate  'the  sweeping  whirlwind's  sway,' 
for  he  appears  rather  puzzled  by  something  that  he  is  look- 
ing at  with  such  intense  interest.*' 

In  truth,  the  old  man  had  laid  down  his  oar,  and  was 
looking  at  some  distant  object  with  fixed  attention. 

"  I  like  not  that  frown  on  the  brow  of  old  Pilatre,"  said 
he,  looking  towards  that  redoubtable  mountain,  which  is 
still  regarded  with  a  sort  of  superstitious  awe  by  the  simple 
inhabitants  of  the  country,  on  account  of  the  ancient  tradi- 
tions connected  with  it.  He  pointed,  as  he  spoke,  toward 
the  peaked  summits  of  the  mountain,  behind  which  a  small 
but  very  black  cloud  was  discernible.  "  When  he  puts 
on  his  cap,"  he  added,  "  it  is  like  replacing  the  plumed  hat 
of  royalty — all  humbler  people  must  hasten  their  departure 
from  his  presence." 

"  I  fear  we  shall  find  some  difficulty  in  obeying  the  sig- 
nal of  his  majesty,"  said  Charles,  "  for  I  have  been  pulling 
with  might  and  main  for  the  last  five  minutes  to  little  pur- 
pose. The  wind  has  certainly  changed,  or  at  least  risen; 
for  there  was  hardly  a  breath  when  we  left  the  shore." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         273 

"It  is  too  true,"  added  their  host,  as  he  resumed  his  oar, 
and  exetted  himself  resolutely  to  direct  the  course  of  their 
slight  skiff  to  the  place  of  their  embarkation.  "I  fear  much, 
if  this  head  wind  continues,  we  may  get  a  shower  bath,  if 
nothing  worse,  ere  yon  rising  cloud  be  past." 

The  breeze  continued  to  freshen,  and  the  sun  began  now 
to  be  obscured  by  the  clouds  which  rose  with  a  rapidity 
known  only  to  those  mountainous  regions;  long  wieaths  of 
thick  mist  floated  down  the  sides  of  Mont  Pilatre,  and  the 
glassy  surface  of  the  lake  was  broken  into  waves,  which 
rose  higher  with  every  blast  that  swept  over  them,  until 
they  were  crested  with  foam.  Nearer  and  nearer  the  tem- 
pest came  sweeping  on,  and  at  length  the  red  lightning 
gleamed  athwart  the  snowy  billows,  and  a  loud  burst  of 
heaven's  artillery  announced  its  presence.  The  dangerous 
situation  of  our  little  party  was  now  manifest;  and  it  seemed 
in  vain,  that  with  stout  arms  and  willing  hearts,  the  oars- 
men exerted  their  skill  and  strength.  Their  utmost  efforts 
could  only  prevent  the  boat  from  being  driven  in  a  direction 
exactly  contrary  to  their  much  desired  haven.  During  this 
trying  hour,  their  fair  companions  were  the  chief  objects  of 
their  anxiety;  and  never  did  the  serene  loveliness  of  Mary's 
character  appear  in  a  more  perfect  light.  She  neither 
shrieked,  nor  fainted;  and  it  was  only  by  the  paleness  of 
her  cheek,  and  the  compression  of  her  beautiful  lip,  that 
her  full  apprehension  of  their  peril  could  be  discerned. 
She  supported  on  her  bosom  the  head  of  the  shrinking  and 
timid  Olivia,  who  sought,  by  concealing  her  face,  to  hide 
at  the  same  moment  her  terror,  and  the  alarming  scene 
before  her.  At  length  a  change,  which  old  Rudolph  had 
anticipated,  and  of  which  he  had  already  expressed  his 
fears,  took  place.  The  wind,  which  had  so  powerfully 
obstructed  their  progress,  suddenly  veered,  and  a  violent 


274        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

gust  swept  the  boat  with  fearful  velocity  onward — then  for 
a  moment  it  died  away. 

"  Now  in  Heaven  alone  is  our  trust,"  said  the  old  man, 
throwing  down  his  oar  in  despair.  "  Another  such  blast 
and  we  are  inevitably  dashed  on  yon  beetling  rock." 

"  In  Heaven  then  be  our  trust,"  said  Montague,  who, 
with  the  energy  that  superior  minds  are  wont  to  exercise 
under  circumstances  of  difficulty  and  danger,  had  assumed 
the  command;  "  we  are  within  reach  of  assistance  if  we 
could  make  ourselves  heard.  It  is  not  more  than  fifty  yards 
to  the  shore.  I  can  discern  even  the  chalet  through  the 
mist."  As  he  spoke,  he  raised  his  voice  in  its  utmost 
power  to  call  its  inhabitants  to  their  aid,  but  in  vain;  its 
tones  rung  like  a  silver-tongued  trumpet  to  those  around 
him,  but  was  lost  amid  the  roaring  of  the  storm.  "  The 
mountain  whistle,  good  Rudolph,"  he  said  hastily. 

The  old  man  replied  only  by  placing  his  hand  to  his 
mouth,  and  sending  forth  a  sharp  shrill  whistle,  well  under- 
stood by  the  hunters  of  the  chamois  amid  the  high  Alps, 
and  which  reverberated  from  rock  to  rock  on  the  shore. 
Almost  instantaneously  two  men  were  seen  bounding  down 
the  slope  that  led  from  the  chalet  to  the  lake. 

•  "  My  resolution  is  now  taken,"  said  Montague;  "  we 
have  only  a  moment  left  to  rescue  us  from  destruction. 
You  were  once  a  bold  and  dexterous  swimmer,  Lennox, 
and  Rudolph  has  but  now  boasted  to  me  of  his  skill.  With 
his  aid  you  can  easily  support  the  slight  form  of  Olivia,  until 
those  hardy  mountaineers  come  to  our  assistance.  I  will 
myself  be  responsible  for  the  safety  of  Miss  Leslie." 

"  She  shall  not,  she  will  not  entrust  herself  to  your 
guidance!"  exclaimed  Charles,  in  a  voice  that  betrayed 
jealousy  and  passion,  mingled  with  real  apprehension  for 
her  safety  in  so  hazardous  an  experiment. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         275 

"  I  have  saved  life  under  circumstances  of  almost  equal 
peril,"  was  the  calm  and  laconic  reply  of  Montague. 

Charles  felt  an  indescribable  repugnance  at  being  reminded 
at  this  moment,  of  the  time  when,  in  their  more  youthful 
days,  he  had  been  rescued  from  a  watery  grave  by  the 
strong  arm  and  dauntless  heart  of  Edward  Montague;  but 
the  reminiscence  awoke  the  better  feelings  of  his  nature. 
He  permitted  Mary  to  resign  the  sinking  form  of  Olivia  to 
his  arms;  while  Montague,  who  waited  only  for  this  signal 
of  her  approbation  of  his  design,  and  one  glance  of  her  eye, 
sprang  with  her  into  the  foaming  waves.  The  instant  his 
movement  was  perceived  by  the  mountaineers  on  the  shore, 
they  dashed  without  hesitation  into  the  water  and  swam  to 
his  aid;  his  example  was  speedily  followed  by  the  rest,  and 
a  few  minutes  sufficed  to  bring  them  all  in  safety  to  the 
land.  The  event  proved  the  wisdom  of  Montague's  coun- 
sel; for  the  instant  they  had  abandoned  it,  the  frail  bark  was 
driven  by  a  blast,  yet  more  violent  than  the  first,  full  against 
the  projecting  rock,  and  dashed  into  fragments. 

Never  was  the  hospitable  kindness  of  the  good  inhabi- 
tants of  the  chalet  more  lavishly  bestowed,  or  more  grate- 
fully appreciated,  than  by  those  who  were  now  so  depend- 
ent upon  it.  Fully  two  hours  had  elapsed,  ere  their  good 
hostess  was  convinced  that  their  comfort  had  been  suffi- 
ciently secured.  The  buoyant  spirits  of  youth,  and  their 
happiness  in  having  been  delivered  from  such  imminent 
peril,  soon  restored  their  usual  animation,  and  when  they 
all  again  met,  their  singular  costume  excited  no  little  merri- 
ment; as,  habited  in  the  peculiar  dress  of  the  canton,  they 
resembled  a  party  equipped  for  a  masquerade.  The  earnest 
persuasions  of  their  kind  hosts,  to  delay  their  return  to  the 
cottage  until  the  next  day,  was  graciously  though  decidedly 
declined;  for  Mary  knew  too  well  the  agonizing  apprehen- 


276  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

sions  that  had  agitated  her  fond  mother's  heart  during  their 
protracted  stay,  to  add  to  it  a  farther  pang.  The  storm  had 
entirely  ceased,  and  the  dewy  foliage  sparkled  in  the  light 
of  the  setting  sun,  as  they  again  traversed  the  road  that  led 
to  their  temporary  home. 

Several  times  during  their  ride,  Charles  thought  of  seek- 
ing an  explanation  with  his  fair  cousin,  which  he  well 
knew  she  had  often  desired  to  make;  but  the  formality 
attending  a  request  to  speak  with  her  alone,  and  above  all 
the  very  natural  desire  to  be  ignorant  of  that  which  he  did 
not  wish  to  know,  kept  him  silent.  He  flattered  himself 
in  the  belief  that  circumstances  would  soon  occur,  which 
would  place  his  pretensions  in  a  far  more  favourable  light 
than  at  that  moment;  and  before  they  had  reached  the  valley, 
his  decision  was  made. 

"  Here  then  we  part,"  he  said,  as  they  reached  the  grille 
of  the  court.  "It  would  be  unkind  as  unmannerly  in  your 
knights  to  intrude  farther,  after  the  fatigues  and  discomforts 
of  the  day.  Ere  to-morrow's  sun  be  risen,  I  shall  be  far, 
far  away!" 

Mary  hastily  returned  the  adieux  of  the  cavaliers,  and 
flew  to  the  arms  of  her  anxious  parent,  who  clasped  her 
adored  child  and  her  loved  protegee  to  her  heart  with  tears 
of  pious  joy  and  gratitude.  And  fervently  did  they  offer 
their  united  thanks  to  that  Gracious  Being,  who  had  so 
mercifully  interposed  to  save  them  during  the  perils  of  the 
past  day. 

Another  and  another  week  passed  away,  and  our  travel- 
lers still  lingered  in  their  quiet  seclusion.  Apparently,  Mon- 
tague had  found  less  difficulty  than  his  rival,  in  persuading 
the  gentle  Mary  to  permit  him  to  accompany  her  in  her 
evening  visit  to  their  favourite  withdrawing  room — the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         277 

summer  house;  for,  each  successive  evening  found  them 
there,  often,  it  is  true,  accompanied  by  her  mother  and 
Olivia;  but  it  appeared  certain,  that  the  anxiety  she  had 
formerly  manifested,  for  their  presence,  during  her  inter- 
views with  her  cousin,  was  far  less  with  his  envied  friend, 
than  it  had  been  with  him.  Indeed,  no  ordinary  impediment 
would  have  prevented  Montague  from  availing  himself  of 
the  permission  thus  given  him;  and  it  was  with  a  degree 
of  impatience,  that  made  him  almost  overstep  the  bounds  of 
civility,  that  he  found  himself  one  evening  arrested  by  an 
acquaintance,  who,  a  stranger  as  well  as  himself  in  the 
valley,  seemed  resolutely  bent  on  depriving  him  of  his 
accustomed  visit,  by  relating  all  his  own  adventures.  After 
many  ineffectual  efforts,  on  the  part  of  Montague,  to  appear 
interested  in  this  prosing  conversation,  and  often  "  bustling 
up  with  unsuccessful  speed,"  the  traveller  began  to  suspect 
that  some  more  agreeable  engagement  might  possibly  have 
awaited  his  tantalized  auditor,  and  he  condescended  to  take 
his  leave,  after  having  inflicted  himself  for  four  mortal  hours 
on  his  "friend."  The  instant  he  departed,  Montague 
hastened  rapidly  to  the  cottage,  but  found,  to  his  mortifica- 
tion, the  doors  were  closed  for  the  night;  and  to  his  surprise, 
his  repeater  sounded  a  quarter  past  eleven.  It  was  too  late 
to  request  admittance;  yet  he  could  not  deny  himself  the 
gratification  of  a  stroll  through  the  grounds,  by  the  light  of 
the  moon  that  was  now  riding  high  in  silvery  brightness 
through  the  Heavens,  though  his  entrance  might  be  deemed 
somewhat  lawless.  Without  much  fear,  however,  of  the 
consequences,  in  case  of  the  discovery  of  his  trespass,  he 
sprung  over  the  slight  barrier  that  obstructed  his  entrance, 
and  wandered  through  the  walks.  He  soon  reached  the 
summer  house;  and,  throwing  himself  on  one  of  the  rustic 
seats,  was  speedily  lost  in  a  pleasing  reverie,  in  which  it 


278  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

may  be  naturally  supposed,  that  the  occupant  of  his  thoughts 
was  the  lovely  being,  who,  in  that  hallowed  spot,  had  re- 
newed to  him  the  vows  of  plighted  love  he  had  won  from 
her  many  months  ere  they  had  met  there.  It  cannot  be  a 
matter  of  surprise  that,  with  such  a  subject  of  meditation, 
breathing  the  sweet  balm  of  dewy  flowers,  and  gazing  on 
the  resplendent  beauties  of  a  cloudless  summer  sky,  studded 
with  countless  stars,  he  should  have  been  aroused  from  his 
sweet  reflections  only  by  the  sound  of  the  distant  village 
bell,  which  tolled  the  hour  of  twelve.  He  rose,  and  was 
departing  with  a  slow  and  lingering  step,  when  his  attention 
was  attracted,  and  then  enchained  by  the  appearance  of  a 
figure,  gliding  through  one  of  the  avenues  that  led  to  the 
grove.  It  passed  on  so  rapidly,  that  he  had  not  time  to 
form  any  resolution  before  it  had  disappeared  among  the 
trees.  There  was  something  so  singular,  so  mysterious, 
so  unearthly  in  the  gliding  motion  of  this  strange  apparition, 
and  in  the  almost  supernatural  whiteness  of  its  apparel,  as 
it  gleamed  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  and  was  then  lost  in 
the  leafy  shade,  that  Montague  felt  an  irresistible  curiosity 
to  view  it  more  nearly.  His  first  impulse  was  to  follow  it 
into  the  grove;  but  the  idea  crossed  his  rnind  that  it  might 
be  the  stratagem  of  some  robber,  who,  aware  of  his  presence, 
desired  to  decoy  him  thither.  While  he  hesitated,  the  ap- 
parition emerged  from  the  grove,  and  was  apparently 
approaching  the  spot  where  he  stood.  Ashamed  of  the 
feeling  of  superstitious  awe  that  involuntarily  crept  over 
him,  Montague  determined  to  discover  who,  or  what  it  was; 
but  when  within  a  few  feet  of  the  place  where  he  stood,  it 
turned  with  the  same  rapid,  noiseless  and  gliding  motion, 
and  in  an  instant  had  disappeared.  Montague  followed  in 
the  same  direction.  He  was  certain  that  the  avenue  in  which 
he  had  lost  sight  of  this  extraordinary  apparition,  terminated, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         279 

after  several  serpentine  windings,  at  the  cottage  door.  He 
pursued  the  same  path  rapidly  and  anxiously,  knowing  from 
the  thickly  entwined  shrubbery  on  each  side,  that  the  vision, 
if  a  real  being,  which  in  spite  of  his  incredulity  with  regard 
to  supernatural  appearances  he  almost  began  to  doubt,  could 
only  find  refuge  in  the  cottage  itself,  where  the  avenue  ter- 
minated; but  he  was  destined  to  disappointment — the  door 
was  closed  and  fastened,  as  when  he  had  an  hour  before  so 
much  desired  to  enter  it;  and  he  had  no  other  resource  than 
to  retrace  his  steps,  and  return  to  the  village  by  the  same 
route  he  had  pursued  in  entering  the  grounds. 

It  may  easily  be  presumed,  that  Montague  felt  but  little 
inclination  to  sleep  after  this  singular  adventure.  He  vainly 
tried  to  account  for  it  upon  any  reasonable  supposition.  In 
vain  did  he  endeavour  to  trace  any  resemblance  between  the 
stout  person  of  Rudolph's  blooming  daughter  on  whom  his 
suspicions  had  at  one  time  fallen,  and  the  slight  form,  the 
graceful,  ethereal  movements  of  the  apparition  he  had  beheld. 
If  a  real  being,  it  must  have  re-entered  the  cottage;  and  it 
could  have  been  none  other  than  one  of  its  inhabitants. 
Mary,  his  loved,  his  beautiful  Mary!  never  once  crossed 
his  mind  in  connection  with  so  strange  a  mystery;  but 
might  it  not  have  been  Olivia?  The  face,  as  the  vision 
glided  by  him,  was  partly  averted,  and  so  concealed  by  a 
long  white  veil,  as  to  hide  the  features  from  him;  yet  he 
thought  he  recognised  the  stature,  and  the  symmetrical  form, 
and  even  the  fair  and  delicate  arm  on  which  a  gemmed 
bracelet  glittered  in  the  bright  moonlight,  had  been  near 
enough  to  him  to  challenge  his  attention.  But  then,  why 
should  a  being  so  helpless,  so  delicate,  expose  herself  to  the 
night  air  at  this  unseasonable  hour?  What  object  could  she 
have  had  in  view?  Why  was  she  thus  alone;  and  would 
her  strange  wanderings  be  permitted  by  her  affectionate 


FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

friends  and  guardians?  All  these  improbabilities  perplexed 
him  greatly;  but  he  resolved,  if  possible,  to  satisfy  his 
doubts  on  the  morrow. 

As  soon  as  a  reasonable  hour  arrived — which,  from  his 
disappointment  on  the  preceding  evening,  he  began  to  think 
would  never  come,  so  slowly  did  the  moments  pass — he 
paid  a  visit  to  the  cottage.  He  found  the  little  parlour 
occupied  by  Mary  and  Olivia.  It  could  not  be  imagina- 
tion that  pictured  Olivia  to  him  more  delicate,  and  paler 
than  he  had  ever  observed  her  before.  A  playful  hint  at 
the  want  of  gallantry,  manifested  in  his  unusual  absence, 
drew  from  him  not  only  an  explanation  of  the  circumstances 
that  had  caused  it,  but  also  of  his  moonlight  adventure. 

"It  was  indeed  singular,"  said  Mary  thoughtfully;  "but 
with  regard  to  Olivia,  it  is  impossible  that  it  could  have 
been  herself.  Her  spirit,  you  would  almost  persuade  me 
it  must  have  been;  for,  if  you  will  look  narrowly,  you  will 
perceive  beneath  the  folds  of  her  muslin  sleeve,  the  bracelet 
•which  shone  with  so  pure  a  lustre  in  the  moon-beams." 

Montague  looked;  and  the  shadowy  outline  of  the  arm, 
as  well  as  the  bracelet,  corresponded  exactly  with  that  of 
the  apparition  of  the  grove. 

"  Why  should  we  not  ask  her?"  she  continued.  "  She 
certainly  knows  best,  and  can  easily  resolve  our  doubts." 

Montague  was  about  to  interpose,  but  Mary  had  already 
attracted  Olivia's  attention  by  a  sign. 

"  Did  you  walk  last  evening — last  night,  Olivia?"  was 
her  first  interrogatory.  Olivia  shook  her  head. 

"  I  had  a  headache,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Where  were  you  at  midnight,  last  night?" 

Olivia  looked  up  with  surprise;  but  not  the  slightest 
expression  of  confusion  appeared  in  her  countenance — not 
the  least  agitation — not  even  the  slightest  change  of  colour 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         281 

betrayed  any  embarrassment.  Apparently  she  fancied  that 
she  had  mistaken  her  friend's  question,  for  she  indicated  a 
wish  to  have  it  repeated.  "  Where  were  you  last  night,  at 
midnight?"  Mary  said  again. 

With  a  sweet  smile  of  the  most  innocent  simplicity, 
Olivia  laid  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  and  closed  her  eyes. 
"  In  bed — and  asleep,"  said  Mary,  translating  her  gesture. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  doubt  the  perfect  truth  and  ingenuous- 
ness of  that  lovely  expression,"  said  Montague  musingly; 
"  yet  it  is  strange,  passing  strange!" 

"  It  must  have  been  a  sort  of  hallucination,"  said  Mary, 
smiling.  "  Perhaps  you  were  thinking  at  the  moment  of 
some  fair  lady;  and  this  pretty  ghost  only  appeared  to  show 
you  that  spirits  might  be  called,  if  not  from  the  '  vasty  deep,' 
from  a  leafy  grove,  that  would  obey  your  behest.  Of  one 
thing,  however,"  she  added,  in  a  more  serious  tone,  "  we 
may  be  certain — that  Olivia  has  answered  us  faithfully.  I 
have  known  her  intimately,  as  you  are  aware,  for  many 
years,  and  I  have  never  known  her  to  depart  in  the  slightest 
degree  from  the  truth." 

The  gallantry  of  the  reply  to  the  first  part  of  this  speech 
may  well  be  imagined,  but  the  latter  part  of  it  increased 
Montague's  perplexity.  Yet  he  began  to  think  that  he  had 
permitted  his  imagination  to  dwell  too  much  upon  a  matter 
of  but  little  concern  to  him;  and  though  he  naturally  felt 
much  curiosity  to  solve  this  singular  mystery,  he  resolved 
to  banish  the  subject  entirely  from  his  mind,  which,  in  the 
delightful  society  he  was  now  favoured  with,  was  no  very 
difficult  matter. 


"  Alone  and  in  tears!"  said  a  well  known  voice,  whose 
deep  rich  tones  were  modulated  to  the  soft  cadence  in  which 
a  youthful  lover  is  wont  to  speak,  as  they  fall  on  the  ear  for 
19 


282        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

•which  they  are  destined.  "  And  may  I  not  be  permitted  to 
participate  in  this  sorrow?"  continued  Montague,  with  a 
mute  but  expressive  acknowledgement  to  the  fair  hand  that 
extended  an  open  letter  to  him,  which  had  evidently  some 
connection  with  the  distress  he  perceived. 

"  You  will  not  be  surprised,"  was  the  reply,  "  at  my  un- 
happiness,  when  you  know  its  cause;  though  it  seems 
almost  like  insensibility  to  the  gifts  of  Divine  Providence  to 
be  absorbed  in  unpleasant  meditations  this  lovely  evening, 
in  the  sweet  embowering  shade  of  this  our  favourite  retreat, 
and  with  so  much  to  make  me  happy.  But — nay,  do  not 
interrupt  me  while  I  explain  my  griefs  to  you.  That  letter 
will  tell  you  that  my  loved  brother  has  been  recently  ex- 
posed to  great  peril  during  a  tour  through  the  Highlands  of 
Scotland.  He  would  fain  persuade  us  that  the  injury  he 
sustained  is  very  slight,  and  to  relieve  our  anxiety,  his 
account  is  corroborated  by  a  friend  of  our  acquaintance;  yet 
he  cannot  disguise  from  us  that  the  period  of  his  return 
hither  is  thus  rendered  uncertain,  and  our  mother's  anxiety 
is  almost  beyond  endurance.  The  declining  health  of  our 
poor  Olivia,  too,  is  a  source  of  the  greatest  alarm  and  per- 
plexity to  us.  She  has  drooped  like  a  broken  lily  ever 
since  the  departure  of  our  young  kinsman,  and  I  cannot 
help  fearing,  that  she  has  given  her  unsuspecting  heart  in 
return  for  his  thoughtless  gallantries.  She  regards  him  as 
the  preserver  of  her  life,  on  the  eventful  evening  of  the  storm 
on  the  lake.  She  wears  the  beautiful  miniature,  he  so  heed- 
lessly presented  her,  day  and  night;  and  so  entirely  am  I 
convinced  of  the  delusion  she  indulges  in  the  belief  that  he 
is  equally  attached  to  her,  that  1  wish  much  to  undeceive 
her.  It  is  most  probable,  however,  that  she  would  persuade 
herself  I  am  mistaken,  even  if  I  were  to  undertake  so  pain- 
ful a  task.  We  have  therefore  determined  to  leave  the  dis- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.  283 

covery  to  herself,  in  the  hope  that  time  and  change  of  scene 
may  banish  her  present  impressions.  My  mother's  pro- 
phetic fears,"  she  continued,  mournfully,  "  may  be  realized; 
for  I  do  not  think  my  hapless  friend  would  survive  a  know- 
ledge of  the  truth.  I  may  perhaps  speak  too  freely,  but  I  am 
betraying  no  confidence;  and  you  will,  I  know,  appreciate 
the  motives  that  induce  me  to  impart  my  thoughts  to  you." 
It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  even  a  description  of  the 
passionate  eloquence,  poured  forth  in  the  reply  to  this 
explanation  of  our  heroine.  What  a  text  for  a  chapter  of 
persuasion  to  abridge  the  long,  tedious  interval,  destined  to 
separate  him  from  his  promised  happiness!  It  may  be 
perhaps  anticipating,  to  reveal  the  effect  of  his  oratory;  but 
it  is  certain,  that  the  interview  ended  by  his  finding  that  the 
exaction  of  one  little  word,  and  even  that  one  conditional,  had 
made  him  the  happiest  of  men.  Speeches,  explanations, 
and  arrangements,  sometimes  occupy  more  time  than  those 
who  are  engaged  in  them  are  aware  of;  and  the  bright  moon 
had  poured  her  Hood  of  silvery  light  around,  before  all  were 
completed.  The  happy  lover  and  his  promised  bride  were 
leaving  the  summerhouse  on  their  return  to  the  cottage, 
when  the  aerial  apparition  of  the  preceding  evening  emerged 
suddenly  from  the  grove.  With  the  same  light,  noiseless, 
gliding  motion,  it  advanced  rapidly  toward  the  spot  where 
they  stood.  The  same  gleaming  whiteness  distinguished 
its  apparel:  again  were  the  features  partly  concealed  by  a 
long  veil,  which,  as  it  floated  on  the  summer  breeze,  added  to 
the  supernatural  appearance.  Again  it  advanced  near  enough 
for  Montague  to  distinguish  the  sparkling  gems  that  encircled 
the  delicate  arm.  Determined,  if  possible,  not  to  be  baffled, 
as  he  had  been  when  it  had  before  crossed  his  path,  he  was 
springing  forward  to  intercept  it,  but  he  was  arrested  by  the 
supplicating  voice  of  Mary — 


284        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

"  Stay!  I  entreat,  I  implore  you  stay!"  she  exclaimed, 
in  accents  of  terroi1,  "  there  is  far  more  danger  than  you 

imagine  in" A  loud  shriek  from  the  shaded  avenue, 

whither  the  apparition  had  directed  its  course,  interrupted 
her  farther  explanation.  "  Seek  not  to  know  more  now," 
she  said  hastily.  "  To-morrow  1  may  perhaps  be  able  to 
explain  what  appears  so  mysterious;"  and  with  a  rapidity 
almost  equal  to  that  of  the  bright  vision  itself,  she  followed 
its  course  toward  the  cottage. 

We  must  now,  for  a  short  time,  leave  these  scenes  of  the 
valley,  and  pursue  the  footsteps  of  our  young  hero,  who,  in 
happy  ignorance  of  what  was  passing  there,  found  himself 
once  more  surrounded  by  the  pleasures  and  luxuries  of  the 
French  capital.  He  was  one  morning  reclining  in  graceful 
indolence  on  the  canape,  still  in  the  "  robe  de  chatnbre 
brodee,  and  pantouffles  de  velours,"  that  he  once  mentioned 
to  our  heroine,  when  the  re-entrance  of  his  valet,  who  had 
apparently  been  charged  with  some  commission  of  import- 
ance, drew  his  attention  from  the  morning  journal — whether 
a  journal  des  modes,  or  something  of  more  consequence, 
it  might  not  be  fair  to  say.  Struck  with  the  odd  mixture 
of  real  pleasure  and  affected  sorrow,  that  gave  to  his  attend- 
ant the  ludicrous  expression  of  one  of  Hogarth's  prints,  he 
almost  anticipated  the  answer  to  his  questions. 

"  Have  you  delivered  my  note,  Dupont?"  he  said. 
"  Shall  I  be  admitted  this  morning?" 

"  I  bring  de  most  triste  nouvelles,  mi-lord,"  replied  the 
valet,  bowing  with  unwonted  reverence  as  he  uttered  the 
last  word,  "  Monsieur,  votre  oncle,  est — mort!" 

The  annunciation  of  this  expected  event  did  not  elicit  any 
very  profound  emotion:  we  will,  however,  do  our  hero  the 
justice  to  say,  that  it  was  received  with  a  feeling  of  solem- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.  285 

nity,  to  which  a  heart  entirely  deadened  by  the  vanities  of 
the  world,  would  have  been  a  stranger.  Insensibly,  how- 
ever, this  feeling  wore  away;  and,  as  he  paced  the  apart- 
ment, brighter  thoughts  soon  rose  uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"  Lord  de  Vaux, — twenty  thousand  a  year,"  said  he, 
musingly.  "  What  female  heart  can  gold  despise?  espe- 
cially when" — and  his  eye  rested  involuntarily  upon  a 
splendid  mirror  which  reflected  his  elegant  person  to  the 
greatest  advantage.  "Mary!  beauteous  Mary!  thou  art 
mine!  How  unfortunate  it  is,  that  I  shall  be  delayed  here 
a  week  or  perhaps  longer!  Something  must  be  done  in  that 
tedious  interval.  Who  can  tell  what  may  be  the  conse- 
quence of  my  apparent  indifference?" 

The  next  moment  found  him  seated  at  his  scrutoire,  pen- 
ning a  rapid  declaration  of  his  passionate  attachment  to  his 
lovely  kinswoman,  with  an  offer  of  his  heart,  his  hand,  and 
his  brilliant  fortune;  his  letter  concluded  with  a  thousand 
regrets  at  being  compelled  to  delay  for  a  week  his  return  to 
"  happy  valley."  Determined  not  to  trust  a  communica- 
tion of  such  importance  to  the  uncertainty  of  the  post,  he 
thought  of  some  private  and  express  conveyance,  and  his 
favourite  valet  was  speedily  summoned. 

"  I  think  you  have  been  in  Switzerland,  Dupont?"  he 
inquired 

"  Yes,  mi-lord,"  replied  the  valet,  with  a  slight  shudder; 
"  I  have  been  in  dat  terrible  pays  sauvage." 

"  Then,  to  oblige  me,  you  cannot  refuse  to  go  again. 
Take  this  letter,  and  depart  with  it  immediately;  deliver  it 
according  to  the  direction.  Be  faithful,  and  your  reward 
shall  be  rich." 

"  To  oblige  mi-lord,  certainement  oui,  mi-lord,"  said  the 
valet;  the  dismal  expression  of  his  countenance  in  the  antici- 
pation of  so  long  a  journey,  and  so  tedious  an  absence  from 


286        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

the  place  which  he  regarded  as  the  only  habitable  spot  in  the 
world,  being  somewhat  dispelled  by  his  young  lord's  last 
words.  "  De  suite,  mi-lord,"  and  with  another  profound 
reverence  and  unusual  alacrity  he  disappeared. 

A  few  hours  found  him  on  the  road  to  the  place  of  his 
destination;  for,  having  twice  travelled  the  same  route  in  the 
suite  of  an  English  nobleman,  he  was  at  no  loss  to  find  his 
way.  Before  the  week  had  elapsed,  the  important  letter 
was  delivered,  read  and  answered.  The  reply  may  be 
easily  conjectured,  without  being  literally  cited.  It  con- 
tained a  frank  avowal  of  a  previous  attachment  and  engage- 
ment on  the  part  of  the  fair  writer, — a  sincere  expression  of 
regret,  that  her  sentiments  toward  her  kinsman  had  not,  as 
she  had  hoped  and  believed,  been  explained  during  his  visit 
to  the  valley,  with  the  kindest  appreciation  of  his  preference, 
and  the  hope  that  he  would  still  retain  for  her  the  friend- 
ship which  would  ever  be  reciprocated  on  her  part.  All 
this  was  expressed  in  the  most  gracious  and  graceful  man- 
ner, but  without  leaving  a  shadow  of  a  doubt  with  regard  to 
her  sentiments.  The  letter  was  signed,  sealed  and  delivered, 
and  in  an  hour  after  his  arrival,  the  valet  of  mi-lord  was  on 
his  return  to  Paris. 

But  the  little  blind  god,  who  seemed  to  take  such  a  mali- 
cious pleasure  in  baffling  our  hero,  had  prepared  another 
disappointment  for  him.  In  passing  through  Lucerne,  the 
faithful  Dupont,  unhappily  for  his  young  lord,  though  as 
he  deemed  it  happily  for  him,  met  with  a  pretty  soubretle, 
who  had  been  detained,  as  she  said,  amid  these  mulheu- 
reuses  montaignes,  by  the  caprice  of  Madame  la  Comtesse, 
in  whose  service  she  was.  It  would  have  been  cruel  and 
ungallant  to  decline  her  invitation  to  spend  a  day  in  the 
town  of  Lucerne;  and  this  day  involved  another  and  an- 
other, Dupont  still  relying  upon  the  difficulties  of  the  route, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         287 

and  an  account  of  his  "  hair  breadth  'scapes,"  which  he 
tiusted  a  "parole  d1  honneur"  would  confirm.  Impatient 
at  his  unexpected  delay,  Charles  resolved  not  to  await  his 
return;  and  as  soon  as  the  arrangements  which  had  retarded 
his  departure  were  accomplished,  he  set  out  for  the  valley. 
A  few  days  rapid  travelling  brought  him  to  Lucerne,  where, 
it  may  be  easily  foreseen,  he  did  not  meet  with  his  attendant, 
that  worthy  personage  having  taken  good  care  to  set  out  in 
the  direction  by  which  his  young  lord  came,  as  soon  as  he 
heard  of  his  arrival.  It  was  with  great  impatience  that 
Charles  watched  the  declining  sun  on  the  last  evening  of 
his  journey,  and  with  no  small  vexation  that  he  found  it 
entirely  too  late  to  attempt  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  valley  before 
the  next  day. 

The  succeeding  morning  arose  in  cloudless  splendour. 
Our  young  hero,  as  soon  as  a  reasonable  hour  arrived, 
procured  a  guide  and  horses  to  pursue  his  way  to  the  val- 
ley. The  buoyancy  of  his  spirits  was  unchecked  by  even 
a  shadow  of  doubt  as  to  his  success,  and  the  brilliancy  of 
the  atmosphere  corresponded  well  with  the  visions  of  bliss 
that  flitted  through  his  imagination.  Once,  and  once  only, 
as  he  looked  on  the  bright  bosom  of  the  lake,  he  remem- 
bered, that  he  had  seen  its  placid  loveliness  succeeded  by 
the  awful  frown  of  the  tempest;  but  the  painful  idea  was 
speedily  banished,  and  all  was  again  light  and  joy.  He 
was  aroused  from  his  pleasing  meditations  by  his  guide, 
who,  on  reaching  a  path-way  which  diverged  from  the 
beaten  track,  had  made  a  dead  halt. 

"  There  lies  the  route,"  said  Charles,  who  remembered 
the  spot  well,  indicating  it  by  a  motion  of  his  hand,  "why 
do  you  not  proceed?" 

"  Because,"  answered  the  guide,  in  rather  a  dogged  tone. 
"  my  good  horse  Wolff  refuses  to  go  farther." 


288  FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

Charles  was  about  to  make  an  impatient  and  rather  angry 
expostulation,  when  his  attention  was  attracted  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  animal,  who  had  planted  his  feet  in  the 
rocky  pathway  in  the  attitude  of  a  mule  when  urged  over  a 
dangerous  precipice,  as  if  with  a  determined  resolution  not 
to  move  an  inch  farther. 

"  You  travellers  are  for  the  most  part  Protestants,  seig- 
neur," said  the  guide,  dismounting  from  his  obstinate  steed 
and  leaning  his  arm  over  the  saddle;  "  and  if  I  tell  you  a 
piece  of  my  mind,  you  will  say  I  am  a  Catholic,  and  that  I 
am  superstitious;  but  by  the  holy  Virgin  I  believe  Wolff  is 
right,  and  with  your  leave  I  shall  follow  his  example." 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  said  Charles,  whose 
patience  was  ebbing  fast 

"Why,"  continued  the  loquacious  guide,  "  it  means  that 
neither  I  nor  my  wiser  horse  will  go  farther  into  this  val- 
ley, both  us  of  being  convinced  that  some  evil  bodes  it  this 
day.  Do  you  not  see  the  very  flocks  gathering  together, 
as  they  do  before  a  storm?  Do  you  not  hear  the  cry  of 
those  ill-betiding  ravens  as  they  scream  from  the  fir  trees 
around  us?  Have  I  not  twice  seen  the  bats  and  owls  flutter 
by  me — creatures  that  would  never  have  left  their  dark 
hiding-places  on  this  sunny  day  but  for  our  warning?  Do 
you  not  see  the  eagles  with  their  young  wheeling  over  our 
heads? — and  shall  I  disregard  all  these  friendly  warnings? 
No!  by  the  saints!  no!" 

"  Then,  in  the  name  of  the  saints  you  worship,"  said 
Charles,  whose  patience  was  exhausted  by  this  long  ha- 
rangue, "  begone,  and  let  me  find  my  way  alone.  I  have 
traversed  this  pathway  often  enough  to  know  whither  it 
will  guide  me." 

He  threw  himself  from  his  horse  as  he  spoke,  and  fling- 
ing the  bridle  to  his  conductor,  dropped  a  piece  of  gold  into 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         289 

• 

his  open  palm,  and  in  another  moment  was  lost  to  view 
amid  the  windings  of  the  forest  pathway.  The  guide  re- 
mained stationary  for  an  instant,  looked  after  him,  shook 
his  head,  and  then  taking  his  horses,  which  showed  no 
farther  symptoms  of  the  contumacious  spirit  they  had  mani- 
fested, retraced  his  steps  to  Lucerne. 

In  the  mean  time,  our  young  hero,  with  the  light  step  of 
a  chamois,  was  rapidly  surmounting  the  difficulties  of  his 
route;  and  half  an  hour  sufficed  to  bring  him  to  the  grille  of 
the  little  court  in  front  of  the  cottage,  which  he  fondly 
thought  contained  his  coveted  treasure.  Without  waiting 
to  request  admittance,  he  passed  the  court,  entered  the  open 
door,  and  stopped  not  until  he  found  himself  at  the  entrance 
of  the  little  parlour.  He  paused  a  moment  at  the  threshold, 
for  all  was  silent  within.  A  glance,  however,  sufficed  to 
show  him  that  it  was  not  untenanted;  for  the  slight  form  of 
Olivia  was  reclining  on  the  sofa.  She  was  apparently 
absorbed  in  deep  meditation,  and  her  downcast  eyes  were 
riveted  on  the  beautiful  miniature  he  had  himself  presented 
her,  and  which  she  held  in  one  hand,  while  the  other  rested 
on  the  head  of  her  faithful  little  favourite.  A  single  step 
within  the  door-way  changed  the  scene.  The  little  animal, 
startled  by  its  sound,  raised  his  head  from  beneath  the 
delicate  hand  which  reposed  on  it,  and  turned  to  look  at 
the  intruder;  but  instead  of  manifesting  the  delight  he  had 
formerly  shown  at  the  appearance  of  his  friend,  he  looked 
up  with  an  expression  of  uneasiness  and  even  terror,  and 
buried  his  slender  head  beneath  the  rich  folds  of  the  cache- 
mere  which  was  thrown  around  the  lovely  person  of  his 
mistress.  This  slight  movement,  however,  was  sufficient 
to  arouse  Olivia's  attention;  a  hectic  flush  rose  with  meteor- 
like  brilliancy  into  her  pale  cheek,  and  on  perceiving  his 
entrance,  she  attempted  to  rise  from  the  sofa.  A  suppli- 


290        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

eating  gesture  from  the  intruder,  however,  aided  by  her 
own  agitation,  prevented  her  intention. 

"  You  have  then  been  ill?"  he  said,  in  the  graceful  pan- 
tomime in  which  he  had  become  so  perfect  an  adept  during 
his  former  visit. 

Olivia  took  the  porcelain  tablet  which  lay  near  her,  and 
inscribed, 

"  Yes,  but  I  am  better  now." 

"And  how  is  it,  then,"  continued  Charles,  adopting  her 
own  mode  of  communication,  by  gently  taking  the  tablet 
from  her  hand,  "  that  I  find  you  thus  alone?" 

"  I  am  not  alone,"  was  the  reply,  "  though  I  often  wish 
much  to  be  alone.  My  health  has  suffered  sadly  since  I 
saw  you  last,  though  I  think  it  would  have  been  restored 
by  rambling  in  the  sweet  shade  of  the  grove  where  we  used 
to  walk.  I  have  been  debarred  from  this  pleasure  ever 
since  you  were  here,  by  my  feeble  health,  which  they  tell 
me  was  chiefly  occasioned  by  wandering  there  twice  in 
my  sleep;  and  the  second  time  thrown  into  a  state  of  ner- 
vous terror,  by  being  suddenly  awakened  by  our  hostess, 
whose  daughter  mistook  me  for  a  ghost."  A  faint  smile 
illumined  her  beautiful  features,  as  she  presented  the  tablet 
again. 

"But  how  then,"  continued  Charles,  who,  in  spite  of  his 
anxiety,  found  himself  interested  in  these  artless  confes- 
sions, "  is  it  that  your  friends  are  not  with  you?  Has  the 
friend  you  loved  best  forsaken  you?" 

"Forsaken  me?  Oh  no!  she  is  an  angel  of  light!"  raising 
her  bright  eyes  to  Heaven,  with  an  expression  of  devoted 
affection.  "  She  left  me  only  half  an  hour  ago,  and  will 
return  immediately.  They  have  only  gone  to  Lucerne." 

"  To  Lucerne?  Impossible!  I  have  but  just  left  it. 
Who  has  gone?" 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.         291 

"  All — even  the  family  of  our  host,  whose  places  are 
temporarily  supplied  by  other  but  faithful  attendants;"  con- 
tinued Olivia.  "I  might  have  accompanied  them — and 
they  persuaded  me  much  to  do  so;  but  I  believe  I  was 
capricious,  and  did  not  just  now  care  to  witness  their  hap- 
piness." 

There  was  a  mystery  in  all  this,  which  embarrassed 
Charles  almost  beyond  endurance.  How  could  he  have 
failed  to  meet  the  lovely  being  who  was  his  attraction  to 
the  valley,  unless  indeed,  as  might  well  have  occurred,  she 
had  passed  by  the  more  frequented  route,  while  he  pursued 
the  forest  path?  Another  circumstance  also  greatly  in- 
creased his  anxiety.  Their  brief  conversation  had  been 
carried  on  chiefly  in  pantomime,  and  Olivia  had  twice  passed 
her  hand  over  her  forehead.  Charles  remembered  well  an 
explanation  she  had  once  made  to  him  of  this  gesture. 
Struck  by  the  singular  beauty  of  Montague's  noble  brow, 
she  had  ever  since  her  first  acquaintance  with  him,  indi- 
cated his  name  by  touching  her  forehead.  Perplexed  and 
alarmed,  he  repeated  his  inquiries. 

"  They  have  gone  to  Lucerne,"  was  the  reply;  and 
Olivia  made  a  sign  of  the  cross  with  an  expression  of  deep 
reverence. 

"  To  church?"  said  Charles,  interpreting  her  gesture, — 
"but  this  is  not  Sunday,  and  your  fair  friend  is  not  a  Ca- 
tholic," 

"  There  is  a  Protestant  church  in  Lucerne,"  was  in- 
scribed on  the  tablet  in  reply. 

"  Do  you  not  yet  understand?"  raising  her  hand  with  a 
gesture  that  startled  and  appalled  her  attentive  companion. 
Again  he  signed  to  her  to  repeat  it.  Olivia  again  made  the 
reverential  sign  of  the  cross,  touched  her  brow,  then  pressed 
her  hand  to  her  heart,  clasped  both  hands  together,  and 


292        FRAGMENTS  OF  A  JOURNAL. 

raised  them  towards  Heaven.  Charles  translated  the  ges- 
tures aloud — "  at  church, — Montague — Mary — united — 
for  ever!" — he  cried — starting  wildly  from  his  seat,  and  for- 
getful that  even  the  world,  far  less  the  narrow  apartment 
contained  aught  but  himself  and  his  bitter  disappointment, 
he  paced  it  with  gestures  of  almost  frantic  despair.  He  was 
flying  from  the  room,  when  his  eye  was  caught  by  the 
death-like  paleness  of  Olivia,  who  had  sunk  back  in  a 
recumbent  attitude  on  the  sofa.  The  idea  flashed  across 
his  mind  that  he  beheld  in  her  another  victim  of  unrequited 
affection.  He  returned  hastily,  and  throwing  open  the 
casement,  knelt  by  the  sofa  and  raised  her  drooping  head 
from  the  pillow. 

"  Olivia!  Olivia!"  he  cried  in  tones  of  agonized  distress, 
as  if  the  hapless  being  he  invoked  could  even  in  life  have 
heard  and  answered  him.  Alas!  his  cares  were  vain! 
The  rich  masses  of  soft  dark  hair  fell  over  his  arm  and 
shaded  her  marble  cheek  and  brow — the  silken  fringed  lids 
were  closed,  and  no  returning  beam  of  consciousness  met 
his  anxious  gaze — the  throbbing  heart  was  still — the  grieved 
spirit  had  passed  away  for  ever! 

"  Is  this  then  to  be  added  to  my  cup  of  wo,  just  Heaven?" 
he  exclaimed,  as  the  dread  reality  in  all  its  awful  truth  burst 
on  him,  and  as  if  endeavouring  to  fly  even  from  himself,  he 
rushed  madly  from  the  house. 

Unconscious  whither  his  steps  were  directed,  he  fled 
through  the  forest  pathway  that  had  brought  him  to  the 
cottage,  and  continued  in  the  same  route,  until  utterly  ex- 
hausted by  fatigue  and  mental  anguish,  he  sank  upon  a 
moss-covered  rock.  "  Would!"  he  exclaimed  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  his  spirit,  "  would  that  yon  dark  and  cragged  moun- 
tain had  fallen  on  me  and  buried  me  beneath  its  ruins,  ere  I 
had  entered  that  once  lovely,  but  now,  oh  how  fatal  spot!" 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GOLDAU.  293 

Could  it  be  his  disordered  imagination  which  pictured  to 
him  that  awful  mountain  "  bowing  its  cloud-capped  head?" 
No!  it  was  no  illusion! — a  loud  crashing  sound  met  his  ear, 
more  fearful  than  the  thunder  of  a  mighty  avalanche! — the 
earth  shook  as  if  rocked  by  an  earthquake.  He  looked 
again — the  dark  mountain  had  disappeared  from  his  view, 
and  the  beautiful  valley  lay  buried  beneath  a  huge  mass  of 
chaotic  ruins! 


"  You  will  doubtless  rejoice  with  me,"  continued  our 
friend,  who  at  this  moment  closed  his  manuscript,  "at  the 
almost  miraculous  escape  of  this  lovely,  and  interesting 
family,  though  with  me  you  must  mourn  over  the  hapless 
fate  of  the  poor  Olivia.  It  affords  one  more  proof,  however, 
of  the  danger  of  flirtation,  which  has  broken  more  hearts 
than  the  world  is  aware  of;  and  if  my  story  may  serve  to 
arrest  one  thoughtless  youth,  or  one  coquette  amid  a  series 
of  heartless  triumphs,  it  will  not  have  been  told  in  vain." 


294 


A  BALLAD. 

"  The  world  was  very  guilty  of  such  ballads  some  three  ages 
since." 

LOVE'S  LABOUR  LOST. 

ON  the  noble  site  of  a  forest-crown'd  height 

An  ancient  castle  stood, 
Broad  fields  were  near,  and  a  stream  flowed  clear 

Thro'  its  old  majestic  wood. 

To  the  youthful  heir  of  this  realm  so  fair, 

No  boon  had  heaven  denied, 
He  had  all  it  sends,  in  wealth,  in  friends, 

And  in  choicest  gifts  beside. 

But  mortals  ne'er  are  contented  here, 

And  he  lov'd  not  his  happy  home; 
New  bliss  he  sought,  and  for  this  he  thought 

In  distant  climes  to  roam. 

Sweet  peace  and  ease  could  no  longer  please, 

And  those  whom  life  had  blest, 
He  hath  left  them  all  in  the  festive  hall, 

And  wearied  sought  his  rest. 

Within  his  bower  at  the  midnight  hour 
Appears  a  being  fair; 


A  BALLAD.  295 

She  waves,  as  she  sings,  her  glittering  wings 
That  float  on  the  ambient  air. 

"  Arise,  sir  knight!"  said  the  faery  sprite, 

"  And  would'st  thou  happy  be, 
To  my  voice  give  heed, — and  away  let  us  speed, 
Far  over  the  dark  blue  sea ! 

"  Pleasures  are  there,  ever  fresh  and  fair, 

There  thou  shall  happy  be, 
Light-hearted  mirth, — all  the  bliss  of  earth 
Shall  be  thine, — then  follow  me!" 

To  her  voice  he  gives  heed,  and  away  they  speed 

Far  over  the  dark  blue  sea, 
Fast  fills  the  sail  to  the  freshening  gale, 

And  the  bark  flies  merrilie. 

And  soon  they  stand  on  fair  Gallia's  strand, 

And  gaily  they  wend  their  way 
To  pleasures  bright,  where  the  festive  light 

Might  charm  all  care  away. 

And  there  might  he  find,  for  sense  or  for  mind, 

A  banquet  fair  and  free, 
Or  obey  the  behest  as  an  honoured  guest, 

Of  the  courtly  revelrie. 

He  moves  along  in  the  brilliant  throng 

Of  knights  and  ladies  all, 
Noble  and  fair  were  gather'd  there 

To  grace  the  stately  hall. 


296  A  BALLAD. 

And  dark  eyes  bright,  as  stars  of  light, 

Shed  around  their  magic  spell, 
And  music's  power,  at  that  witching  hour, 

On  the  charm'd  ear  gently  fell. 

"  The  scene  is  fair!"  said  a  soft  voice  near, 

"  Hast  thou  happiness  found  at  last?" 
But  his  wandering  eye  glanc'd  carelessly, 
And  o'er  all  the  bright  scene  pass'd. 

"  It  is  soft  and  fair,  but  I  hope  not  here 

Thy  promis'd  bliss  to  see, 
For  far  have  I  rov'd  from  the  hearts  that  lov'd 
And  only  throbb'd  for  me. 

"  In  the  look  askance,  and  the  cold  keen  glance, 

The  stranger's  fate  I  see, 
But  the  gentle  wile  and  the  wreathed  smile, 
These,  these  are  not  for  me!" 

He  spoke  not  again,  for  his  thoughts  had  then 
Far  away  o'er  the  ocean  stray'd, 

But  the  words  had  pass'd,  and  a  cloud  o'ercast 
The  brow  of  the  beauteous  maid. 

."_;•;;  1  >',._,  :-.j   •'.'..     •  .;«'    r 

But  soon  the  wile  of  a  lovely  smile 

On  her  radiant  face  he  may  see, 
And  again  she  sings,  as  she  waves  her  wing.", 
"  Follow,  oh  follow  me!" 

Again  he  gives  heed,  and  away  they  speed 
From  haunts  and  pleasures  gay, 


A  BALLAD.  297 

To  regions  wild,  where  the  sylph  beguil'd 
The  toilsome  yet  pleasing  way. 

Oh  'tis  sweet,  I  ween,  on  the  fairy  scene 

To  gaze  from  the  mountain's  brow, 
On  the  roseate  light  of  the  snow  crown'd  height, 

Or  the  gathering  clouds  below: 

To  glide  o'er  the  lake  while  its  waters  break 

On  the  ear  with  a  silver  sound, 
Or  to  sit  in  the  shade  of  the  forest  glade, 

While  the  dark  firs  wave  around: 

To  watch  the  soft  hue  of  the  mountain  blue, 

Or  the  glacier's  icy  thrall, 
Or  the  glowing  west  thro'  the  pearly  mist 

Of  the  dashing  waterfall: 

To  hear  the  sound,  as  it  echoes  round, 

And  each  crag  and  cliff  gives  back, 
Of  the  whistle  wild  of  the  mountain  child, 

As  he  springs  on  the  chamois'  track. 

His  heart  grew  warm,  for  who  feels  not  the  charm 

Of  nature,  where  e'er  we  roam? 
But  the  glistening  eye,  and  the  rising  sigh, 

Betray'd  thoughts  of  his  own  lov'd  home. 

Again  did  the  shade,  o'er  the  brow  of  the  maid, 

Like  the  cloud  of  summer  fly, 
And  a  transient  beam  like  the  lightning's  gleam, 

Shot  forth  from  her  bright  dark  eye. 

20 


298  A  BALLAD. 

"  Thou  lov'st  not,  then,  this  beauteous  scene, 

It  hath  no  charms  for  thee? 
Then  no  longer  stay,  let  us  haste  away, 
Follow,  oh  follow  me!" 

Again  he  obey'd  and  again  they  stray'd 

To  a  fair  and  sunny  clime, 
Whose  classic  name,  and  her  storied  fame 

Were  the  boast  of  the  olden  time. 

Where  art  may  vie  with  the  purpled  sky, 
And  the  sculptor's  glories  stand, 

As  if  all  were  given  of  earth  or  heaven, 
To  adorn  this  favour'd  land. 

And  oft  did  they  rove  in  the  orange  grove 
When  the  golden  sun-set  shone, 

And  the  snow-white  bloom  its  rich  perfume 
O'er  the  dewy  air  had  thrown. 

But  the  soothing  hour  had  lost  its  power 
And  the  scene  its  gentle  balm, 

For  memory  brought  one  sadd'ning  thought 
To  banish  his  spirit's  calm. 

For  he  no  more  his  native  shore 

Might  e'er  again  behold, 
Nor  could  he  reveal,  or  to  one  he  lov'd  well, 

The  dark  mystery  unfold. 

Youthful  and  fair,  he  had  left  her  there, 
Lovely  and  kind  and  true, 


A  BALLAD.  2J 

And  vainly  he  sought  to  dispel  the  thought 
Of  her  sad  and  last  adieu. 

For  then  was  there  hid  in  that  silk  fring'd  lid 

A  gentle  tear  perchance, 
And  a  blush  did  speak  on  the  pale  pure  cheek, 

That  brightened  beneath  his  glance. 

He  thought  of  all  that  in  bower  or  hall 

Had  enlivened  his  distant  home, 
Of  the  hearts  he  had  'reft,  and  the  sweet  peace  left 

In  exile  far  to  roam. 

All  pensive  he  stray'd, — 'till  the  dark-eyed  maid 

On  his  pathway  quickly  turn'd, 
And  scorn  flash'd  high  in  her  sparkling  eye, 

And  her  cheek  with  anger  burn'd. 

Ingrate!"  she  said,  "  for  thee  have  I  fled, 

And  thy  solemn  promise  heard, 
And  would'st  thou  now  forget  thy  vow 

Or  be  false  to  thy  knightly  word? 

Yet  not  in  vain,  my  care  and  pain 

And  my  wanderings  all  shall  be, 
Nor  thy  oath  shalt  thou  break,  nor  thy  guide  forsake, 

Then  follow,  follow  me!" 

On,  on  they  sped,  and  the  way  she  led 

At  the  close  of  the  parting  day, 
Nor  e'en  was  there  one  twinkling  star 

To  lighten  the  devious  way. 


300  A  BALLAD. 

The  wind  swept  past  in  a  fitful  blast 
That  the  gathering  storm  foretold, 

And  the  glare  of  the  dread  volcano  near 
Did  a  fearful  scene  unfold. 

For  he  saw  by  that  bright  and  terrific  light 
That  illumin'd  the  awful  gloom, 

The  spirit  wild  had  his  steps  beguil'd 
To  the  verge  of  a  yawning  tomb. 

And  on  his  gaze  as  the  lurid  blaze 

Still  high  and  higher  burn'd, 
The  beauteous  sprite,  from  a  being  of  light 

To  a  hideous  spectre  turn'd. 

All  vanish'd  the  grace  of  her  lovely  face, 

And  far  had  all  beauty  flown, 
And  a  fleshless  arm  round  his  manly  form 

With  a  giant's  strength  was  thrown. 

And  the  golden  hair  that  was  erst  so  fair 
O'er  her  snowy  shoulders  flung, 

A  death's  head  bound,  all  coil'd  around, 
And  with  hissing  serpents  hung. 

In  vain  did  he  seek  the  spell  to  break 
And  to  loosen  the  deadly  grasp 

Of  the  skeleton  hands  that  like  iron  bands 
His  heaving  chest  enclasp; — 

And  a  hollow  voice  near  said  within  his  ear, 
"  Thy  home  thou  shalt  never  see, 


A  BALLAD.  301 

"  In  this  loathsome  tomb  behold  thy  doom, 
"  Once  more  shalt  thou  follow  me!" 

She  said,  and  sprang,  and  one  wild  cry  rang 

With  a  frightful  and  thrilling  sound; 
The  ponderous  stone  o'er  the  vault  was  thrown, 

And  dread  silence  reign'd  around! 

****** 

The  horrid  spell  broke  when  the  knight  awoke, 
As  they  plung'd,  from  his  couch  he  fell, 

And  the  morning's  beam  did  his  fever'd  dream, 
With  the  shadows  of  night  dispel. 

And  the  vision  he'd  tell  to  one  he  lov'd  well, 

When  seated  by  her  side, 
And  merry  he  laugh'd,  and  a  bright  cup  quafTd, 

To  the  health  of  his  fairy  guide. 


THE  END. 


LEA    &    BLANCHARD, 

PHILADELPHIA, 
HAVE  PUBLISHED 

A     BEAUTIFUL     PRESENT: 

THE  WORKS  OF  MRS.  HEMANS, 

COMPLETE, 

INCLUDING  A  MEMOIR  BY  HER  SISTER. 

A  new  and  beautiful  edition,  printed  on  fine  paper,  with  a  por- 
trait of  the  authoress,  handsomely  bound  in  embossed  cloth,  or  in 
calf  and  morocco,  extra,  with  gilt  edges,  forming  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  presents  of  the  season. 

In  7  vols.  royal  I2mo. 

This  is  the  only  complete  edition  of  the  works  of  Mrs.  Hemans, 
and  contains  many  new  poems,  together  with  other  matter  not 
embraced  in  any  other  edition  of  her  works. 

"  This  is  a  truly  elegant  edition  of  the  works  of  the  sweetest 
poetess  the  world  has  ever  known.  The  publishers  have  done 
justice  to  the  memory  of  the  writer  of  delicious  poetry,  by  the 
manner  in  which  they  have  preserved  and  embalmed  it.  We 
love  to  think  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  because,  for  years  past,  we  have 
read  her  poems  with  delight.  The  story  of  her  life,  told  by  her 
sister,  is  full  of  deep  interest,  as  it  develops  the  springs  of  her 
passion  for  the  beautiful;  and  unfolds  the  secret  fountains  of  her 
feelings,  which  were  always  as  pure  as  they  were  ardent.  Her 
poetry  was  not  assumed  for  a  moment's  exertion,  and  then  laid 
aside,  but  it  was  life  itself.  The  world  with  its  beauty  and  its 
glory  merely  contributed  to  her  imagination;  and  the  human 
heart  was  her  own,  for  she  felt  its  highest  and  holiest  desires." — 
Boston  Times. 


THE   POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 

SIR    WALTER     SCOTT, 

^   COMPLETE. 

A  fine  edition,  printed  on  beautiful  paper,  to  match  the  works 
of  Mrs.  Hemans. 

In  6  vols.  royal  12mo. 

THE   POETICAL   WORKS 

OF 

BISHOP     HEBER, 

COMPLETE. 

A  handsome  royal  12mo.  volume,  bound  in  extra  embossed  cloth. 


BIOGRAPHY  AND  POETICAL  REMAINS 

OF  THE  LATE 

MARGARET   MILLER   DAVIDSON. 

BY  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

SECOND  EDITION. 

In  One  Volume,  handsomely  bound  in  extra  embossed  cloth. 
"  And  even  now,  when  our  emotions  are  calmed,  we  feel  little 
disposition  to  add  anything  further  than  to  recommend  every  one 
to  read  it.  It  is  a  simple  tale,  simply  and  beautifully  told,  com- 
posed altogether  of  the 'lights  and  shadows,' the  little  incidents 
which  made  up  the  young  spirit's  life,  fondly  cherished  in  the 
memory,  and  feelingly  narrated  by  a  bereaved  mother  to  the 
biographer. — '  Of  all  precious  children,  she  is  the  most  remark- 
able.' " — New  York  Review. 


THE 

POETICAL    REMAINS 

OF  THE  LATE 

LUCRETIA    MARIA    DAVIDSON: 

COLLECTED  AND  ARRANGED 

BY  HER  MOTHER. 
WITH    A    BIOGRAPHY, 

BY 

MISS  SEDGWICK. 

"Death,  as  if  fearing  to  destroy, 

Paused  o'er  her  couch  awhile; 

She  eave  a  tear  for  those  she  loved, 

Then  met  him  with  a  smile." 

In  One  handsome  Volume,  to  match  Irving'*  Memoir  of  her  Sister. 


KEBLE'S   CHRISTIAN   YEAR. 

THOUGHTS    IN     VERSE, 

FOR  SUNDAYS  AND  HOLY  DAYS  THROUGHOUT  THE  YEAR. 
BY  THE  REV.  JOHN  KEBLE, 

PROFESSOR  OF  POETRY  IN  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  OXFORD. 

"  In  quietness  and  confidence  shall  be  your  strength."  —  ISAIAH,  xxx,  15. 

A  new  edition,  with  a  further  revision;  and  an  Introduction  by 
the  Rev.  George  W.  Doane,  Bishop  of  New  Jersey.  In  one  neat 
volume. 

"These  verses  are  singularly  beautiful  in  conception  and  com- 
position, and  breathe  the  purest  poetic  taste,  and  the  most  sincere 
and  fervent  spirit  of  piety."  —  Gazette. 


LEA    &    B  LA  N  CHARD, 

PHILADELPHIA, 

Have.  Recently  Published 

A  SECOND  EDITION 
OP 

THE  BIOGRAPHY  AND  POETICAL  REMAINS 

OF  THE  LATE 

MARGARET  MILLER  DAVIDSON, 

In  One  Volume,  handsomely  bound  in  embossed  cloth. 

"  It  is  full  of  melancholy  interest.  We  see  a  brain  of  preter- 
natural and  precocious  activity  embraced  in  a  frame  of  extreme 
delicacy  and  susceptibility,  and  that  the  latter  must  very  soon  wear 
out  is  obvious  from  the  beginning  to  an  observing  eye.  *  *  * 
Gentleness,  tenderness,  and  depth  of  feeling,  religious  sensibility, 
moral  purity  and  the  beautiful  impulses  of  genius." 

"  Have  the  annals  of  recorded  genius  anything  to  show  more 
remarkable  than  thisl" — North  American  Review. 

"  The  reading  world  (says  Mr.  Irving)  has  long  set  a  cherish- 
ing value  on  the  name  of  Lucretia  Davidson,  a  lovely  American 
girl,  who,  after  giving  early  promise  of  rare  poetical  talent,  was 
snatched  from  existence  in  the  seventeenth  year  of  her  age.  The 
subject  of  the  Biography  is  deeply  interesting,  and  no  one  can. 
read  it  without  a  sentiment  of  gratitude  to  Mr.  Irving,  and  a  feel- 
ing of  sorrow  that  one  so  lovely  as  the  subject  of  it  should  so  early 
'  sparkle,'  be  exhaled  and  sent  to  heaven." — Boston  Courier. 

"  The  volume  here  presented  is  very  attractive.  The  Biogra- 
phy by  Irving  derives  a  great  interest  from  the  affectionate  dignity 
with  which  a  mother,  not  unworthy  of  such  daughters,  seems  to 
have  preserved  the  record  of  the  development  of  the  powers  of 
mind,  and  graces  of  character,  of  her  gifted  and  fated  child; 
while  the  prose  and  poetical  remains  attest  the  taste  and  talent 
which  a  premature  grave  snatched  from  the  world." — New  York 
American. 

"  The  particulars  of  Margaret's  career,  which  have  been  ob- 
tained by  Mr.  Irving  principally  from  her  moiher  and  family,  and 
are  recorded  in  his  usual  fascinating  style,  will  be  found  of  intense 
and  melancholy  interest;  her  poetical  efforts  from  the  age  of  eight 
years,  till  her  early  death  at  fifteen,  display  an  activity  of  intellect 
truly  remarkable,  and  which  will  too  readily  account  for  her  pre- 
mature decease.  This  work  cannot  fail  to  find  high  favour  with 
the  public." — Pennsylvanian, 
1 


of  their  feelings  and  sentiments,  seem  to  us,  though  living  so 
many  centuries  apart,  to  have  borne  a  remarkable  relation  to  one 
another." — New  York  American. 

THE    QUEEN    OF    FLOWERS, 

OR 

MEMOIRS  OF  THE  ROSE; 

With  Coloured  Plates. 
A  beautiful  little  volume,  with  gilt  edges,  suitable  for  presents. 

"  This  neat  little  bijou  comes  very  appropriately  at  the  present 
season,  just  as  the  favorite  and  favored  flower  and  all  its  perfumed 
satellites  on  every  side  are  bursting  into  bloom  and  beauty.  As 
an  occasional  souvenir  or  remembrance,  too,  it  happens  at  the 
proper  time — when  the  published  annuals  have  become  somewhat 
antiquated,  and  ere  those  in  embryo  have  burst  their  chrysalis. 
The  subject  is  treated  in  a  series  of  pleasant  letters  from  a  gentle- 
man to  a  dear  female  friend,  through  which  are  scattered  a  profu- 
sion of  gems  of  poesy  from  the  rich  mines  of  many  ancient  and 
modern  sons  of  song. 

"Although  the  author,  with  attractive  modesty,  remarks  in  the 
language  of  the  lively  and  forcible  Montaigne,  '  I  have  gathered 
a  nosegay  of  flowers  in  which  there  is  nothing  of  my  own  but  the 
string  that  ties  them,'  yet  the  reader  will  discover  many  sweet 
thoughts  and  pretty  sentiments,  springing  like  daisies  and  violets 
by  the  wayside,  charming  the  traveller,  and  rendering  the  pursuit 
pleasant  and  profitable." — Saturday  Courier. 

THE  SENTIMENT  OF  FLOWERS, 

OR 

LANGUAGE  OF  FLORA: 

EMBRACING  AN  ACCOUNT  OF  NEARLY  THREE  HUNDRED  DIFFERENT  FLOW- 
ERS, WITH  THEIR  POWERS  IN  LANGUAGE. 

"In  Eastern  lands  they  talk  in  flowers, 

And  they  tell  in  a  garden  their  loves  and  cares; 
Each  blossom  that  blooms  in  their  earclnn  bowers 
On  its  leaves  a  mystic  language  bears." 

With  Coloured  Plates;  a  small  volume,  embossed  cloth,  gilt  edges. 
The  work  is  beautifully  got  up,  and  the  flowers  tastefully  and 
properly  coloured.  The  volume  is  a  pleasing  appendage  to  the 
centre  table,  and  is  a  most  timely  gift,  when  the  flowers  are  just 
beginning  to  exhibit  their  beauties,  and  to  present  themselves  as 
interpreters  of  human  feelings.  We  commend  the  little  volume 
as  combining  grave  instruction  with  amusement. —  U.  S.  Gazette. 

A  New  Edition,  with  New  Plates,  of  the 
LANGUAGE    OF    FLOWERS, 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIVE  POETRY: 

To  which  is  now  first  added,  THE  CALENDAR  OF  FLOWERS,  revised 

by  the  Editor  of  "Far get- Me- Not;"  handsomely  done  up  in 

embossed  leather  and  gilt  edges. 


DE    CLIFFORD, 

OR 

THE    CONSTANT   MAN. 

By  the  Author  of  "  TREMAINE,"  "  DE  VERB,"  &c. 

"  De  Clifford  is  a  sterling  work — a  work  not  to  be  perused  and 
dismissed  in  a  breath,  but  to  be  read  and  studied  again  and  again. 
It  is  not  for  the  story,  but  for  the  fine  delineation  of  the  movement 
of  the  human  heart — for  the  striking  descriptions  of  eminent  poli- 
tical and  distinguished  persons,  for  the  great  knowledge  of  life, 
and  men,  and  things,  displayed  in  ever)'  part — for  just  reflections 
on  events  which  belong  to  all  periods — for  vigorous  opinions  on 
celebrated  authors  and  the  tendency  of  their  writing,  and,  above 
all,  for  an  elevated,  manly,  and  moral  tone,  calculated  to  discou- 
rage vice  and  inspire  virtue  in  every  walk  and  relation  of  life. 

"  These  volumes  will  long  continue  to  be  an  ornament  to  the 
polite  literature  of  our  time." — London  Literary  Gazette. 


CECIL, 

OR. 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  COXCOMB. 
A  NOVEL. 

He  was  such  a  delight — such  a  coxcomb — 
Such  a  jewel  of  a  man! — Byron's  Journal. 

In  Two  Volumes  12mo. 

t[  Cecil,  or  Memoirs  of  a  Coxcomb. — This  book  is  remarkably 
clever,  written  in  a  sparkling  and  _easy  style,  which  is  read  as 
easily.  It  is  full  of  pointed  things.'  The  writer  has  also  a  vein 
of  humorous  exaggeration,  at  which  we  have  laughed  heartily, 
and  his  picture  of  high  London  Life  could  only  have  been  drawn 
by  a  thorough  proficient  in  its  sordid  jealousies  and  utter  want  of 
heart." — Examiner. 

"  The  author  of  this  brilliant  novel  figures  with  all  the  supre- 
macy of  a  master.  The  work  is  perfectly  fresh  in  style,  and  is 
full  of  graceful  vivacity." — Morning  Herald. 

"  A  novel  of  the  '  Vivian  Grey'  school,  but  with  more  point 
and  vigour.  The  story  is  told  throughout  with  unflagging  spirit, 
and  wears  an  aspect  of  reality  not  often  met  with  in  fiction." — 
Sun. 

"  Many  are  the  vicissitudes  which  befall  Cecil.  His  coxcombry 
and  adventures  are  amusing;  his  humour  is  searching  and  sar- 
castic, and  the  living  spirit  which  animates  his  confessions  hold 
out  to  the  last." — Athenaim, 

1* 


COOPER'S    NEW   NOVEL. 
THE    DEERSLAYER, 

OR 

THE  FIRST  WAR  PATH; 

A  TALK  OF  THE  EARLY  DAYS  OF  NATTY  BUMPO  AND  CHINGACHOOOK. 

By  the  author  of  "The  Last  of  the  Mohicans,"  "The  Prairie,"  "Pio- 
neers," Sfc.  ffc. 

In  Two  Volumes,  12rao. 

"  Here  is  decidedly  the  best  novel  of  the  season,  whether  pub- 
lished in  England  or  America.  In  it,  old  Leatherstocking  ap- 
pears again,  and  is  as  entertaining  as  ever.  As  far  as  we  have 
read,  the  story  is  sustained  with  unflagging,  we  may  say,  with 
thrilling  interest;  and  we  promise  ourselves  a  treat,  such  as  we 
have  not  for  a  long  time  enjoyed,  in  finishing  the  perusal  of  the 
tale.  Give  us  Mr.  Cooper  after  all,  for  the  sea  or  Indian  life. 
As  a  depictor  of  incidents,  amid  the  roar  of  the  ocean  storm,  or 
the  dangers  of  our  savage  wilds,  the  author  of  the  "  Pioneers"  is 
pre-eminent.  Few  writers  could  have  kept  up  the  interest  in  one 
character  so  long  as  Cooper  has  sustained  it  in  that  of  Leather- 
stocking.  We  cannot  see  that,  in  the  present  volumes,  there  is 
any  falling  off  in  this  respect.  Chingachgook,  the  Mohican, 
whose  death-scene  is  so  powerfully  painted  in  "  The  Prairie," 
also  appears  in  the  present  tale. 

"  This  novel  completes — the  author  says— the  'Leatherstock- 
ing' tales.  Cooper  has  now  followed  the  borderer  through  every 
stage  of  his  existence,  from  the  young  scout  to  the  trapper  on  the 
western  prairies.  The  five  tales  may  be  considered  as  forming 
one  continued  story,  in  which  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  the 
several  plots,  are  accessaries  only  to  the  history  of  '  Hawkeye,' 
around  whom  the  chief  interest,  after  all,  revolves.  The  idea  of 
carrying  one  character  through  several  tales  is  one  successfully 
achieved  by  Shakspeare;  and  we  may  also  say,  successfully  imi- 
tated by  Cooper. 

"  We  repeat,  no  tale  of  the  season  equals  The  Deerslayer. 
Every  American  especially  should  read  this  last  work — the  cope- 
stone  of  a  series — by  the  first  living  novelist  of  his  country.  — 
Saturday  Evening  Post. 

A  FINE  EDITION  OF  THE 
LEATHERSTOCKING    TALES: 


TV  Deerslayer,  The  Pathfinder,  The  Pioneers,  The  Prairie,  and 
The  Lasi  of  the  Mohicans. 

In  Fire  Volumes,  12mo.,  bound  in  embossed  cloth. 


A  New  Edition,  complete,  (Forty  Volumes  bound  in  Twen- 
ty,) of  COOPER'S  NOVELS  AND  TALES: 

CONTAINING 

The  Spy,  Pioneers,  Pilot,  Lionel  Lincoln,  The  Prairie,  Water 
Witch,  Wish-ton-wish,  Last  of  The  Mohicans,  Red  Rover,  Bravo, 
Travelling  Bachelor,  Heidenmauer,  Headsman,  Monnikins,  Pre- 
caution, Homeward  Bound,  Home  As  Found,  Pathfinder,  Mer- 
cfdes  of  Castile,  and  The  Deerslayer. 

"Also,  The  Second  Series  of  his  Novels  and  Tales,  containing 
the  last  fourteen  volumes  of  his  books,  bound  in  a  style  to  match 
the  first  series  in  twenty-six  volumes. 

The  whole  of  the  Novels  by  Mr.  Cooper  are  now  for  the  first 
time  brought  within  the  reach  of  the  public  in  a  uniform  style, 
and  at  so  low  a  price  that  entitles  them  to  a  very  general  circula- 
tion. 


THE 

POETICAL    REMAINS 

OF  THE  LATE 

LUCRETIA    MARIA    DAVIDSON: 

COLLECTED  AND  ARRANGED 

BY  HER  MOTHER. 
WITH    A    BIOGRAPHY, 

BY 

MISS  SEDGWICK. 

"Death,  as  if  fearing  to  destroy, 

Paused  o'er  her  couch  awhile; 

She  gave  a  tear  for  those  she  loved, 

Then  met  him  with  a  smile." 

In  One  handsome  Volume,  to  match  Irving's  Memoir  of  her  Sister. 

FAMILY    SECRETS, 

OR 

HINTS  TO  THOSE  WHO  WOULD  MAKE  HOME  HAPPY. 
BY  MRS.   ELLIS, 

(LATE  MISS  STICKNKT.) 


A  NEW  EDITION  OF 

GREYSLEAR, 

A   ROMANCE   OF    THE    MOHAWK: 
BY  MR.  HOFFMAN, 

Author  of  "  Wild  Scenes  in  the  Forest  and  Prairie"  fc. 
In  Two  Volumes,  12mo. 

PATCH     WORK: 

BY  CAPT.  BASIL  HALL,  R.  N.,  F.  R.  S.,  &c. 

In  Two  Volumes. 

"Capt.  Hall  is  an  easy,  familiar  writer,  already  favourably 
known  in  the  parlour,  where  his  reputation  will  be  enhanced  by 
this  present  work.  It  is  made  up  of  sketches  of  various  scenes 
and  incidents,  such  as  are  apt  to  befall  the  wayfarer  in  many 
countries.  Vesuvius  in  eruption  is  well  described,  and  the  author 
warms  with  his  subject  in  depicting  Etna  under  the  same  circum- 
stances. The  changeful  and  oft-sung  beauties  of  the  hills  and 
valleys  of  Switzerland  are  pleasantly  talked  about,  and  such  ad- 
venture as  the  bold  traveller  encountered  amid  Alpine  glaciers, 
thrillingly  told." — North  American. 

QUODLIBET: 

CONTAINING  SOME  ANNALS  THEREOF: 

WITH  AN  AUTHENTIC  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  ORIGIN  AND  GROWTH 

OF  THE  BOROUGH,  AND  THE  SAVINGS  AND  DOINGS 

OF  SUNDRY  OF  THE  TOWNSPEOPLE! 

INTERSPERSED  WITH  SKETCHES  OP  THE  MOST  REMARKABf.F.    AND  DISTIN- 
GUISHED CHARACTERS  OF  THAT  PLACE  AND  ITS  VICINITY. 

Edited  by  SOLOMON  SECONDTHOUGHTS,  Schoolmaster, 

From  Original  MSS.  indited  by  him,  and  now  made  public  at  the 

request  of,  and  under  the  patronage  of,  the  Great  New  Light 

Democratic  Central  Committee  of  Quodlibet. 

"  We  find  that  we  must  stop  quoting  from  his  attractive  volume; 
the  extracts  already  made  from  it  commend  more  strongly  than 
any  panegyric  from  us  could  do,  to  the  attentive  perusal  of  every 
man  who  is  fond  of  wit,  and  who  does  not  relish  a  powerful  poli- 
tical argument  the  less  because  it  is  presented  to  him  in  a  dra-, 
malic  form." 

THE  SIEGE  OF   FLORENCE, 

OR 

THE  SECRETARY  OF  MACHIAVELLI. 

AN  HISTORICAL  ROMANCE. 

In  Two  Volumes,  12mo. 


A  LIBRARY  EDITION 

OF  THE 

SELECT    WORKS 

OF 

HENRY    FIELDING. 

WITH 

A  MEMOIR  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  THE  AUTHOR, 

By  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT: 
AND  AN  ESSAY  ON  HIS  LIFE  AND  GENIUS, 

BY  ARTHUR  MURPHY,  ESQ. 
WITH  A  PORTRAIT. 

Sound  in  One  or  Two  Volumes,  and  in  various  styles,  to  suit  tht 
Purchasers. 


ALSO,  TO  MATCH  THE  ABOVE, 

THE    SELECT    WORKS 

OF 

TOBIAS    SMOLLETT: 

WITH 
A  MEMOIR  OF  THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  THE  AUTHOR, 

BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 
WITH    A    PORTRAIT. 

Bound  in  One  or  Two  Volumes,  to  match  Fielding. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  GOETHE, 

FROM  THE  GERMAN: 

WITH  NOTES,  ORIGINAL    AND  TRANSLATED,   ILLUSTRA- 
TIVE OF  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 
BY  MRS.  AUSTIN. 

In  Two  Volumes. 


THE  LONDON  FRIENDSHIP'S  OFFERING 
FOR  1842. 

EDITED  BY  LEITCH  RITCHIE,  ESQ. 

The  new  volume  of  this  favourite  annual  is  in  preparation 
under  the  superintendence  of  the  author  of  the  first  nine  volumes 
of  the  "  Picturesque  Annual,"  on  a  scale  of  unusual  splendour. 

Among  the  authors  engaged  are  the  following:  Mrs.  Abdy, 
W.  Harrison  Ainsworth,  Countess  of  Blessington,  D.  J.  Bour- 
caalt  (Author  of  "London  Assurance")  Mrs.  Bray,  Miss  Mary 
Anne  Browne,  Barry  Cornwall,  R.  H.  Home,  Hon.  Mrs. 
Lambert,  Charles  Lewis  (Author  of  the  "  Career  of  Woman"), 
Miss  Moss  (Author  of  the  "  Romance  of  Jewish  History"),  Hon. 
Mrs.  Erskine  Norton,  Miss  Power,  Thomas  Roscoe,  J.  R.  Aris, 
Charles  Richardson,  Leitch  Ritchie,  Miss  Savage,  Miss  Camilla 
Toulmin,  Mrs.  Walker,  Forbes  Winslow,  Lady  Emmeline 
Stuart  Woriley,  Lady  Wyatt,  &c.  &c. 

The  engravings  are  finished  with  unusual  care;  and  a  more 
attractive  volume,  as  regards  external  appearance,  Literature, 
Art,  and  Fashion,  has  rarely  if  ever  crossed  the  Atlantic. 

It  will  be  bound  in  solid  though  richly  ornamented  leather. 


HEATH'S    BOOK    OF    BEAUTY 
FOP  1S42. 

Edited  by  the  COUNTESS  OP  BLESSINGTON-. 
With  numerous  exquisite  Engravings  by  the  most  eminent  artists. 

This  work  will  be  bound  in  superb  style,  with  gilt  edges,  to 
match  the  volumes  of  former  years. 


THE    KEEPSAKE 
For  is. i». 

EDITED  BY  LADY  E.  STUART  WORTLEY. 

With  Splendid  Engravings. 

In  style  and  beauty  this  work  will  equal  if  not  exceed 
the  volumes  of  former  years.  It  will  be  richly  bound  in 
gilt  to  enable  the  purchasers  of  the  former  volumes  to  keep 
up  the  series. 

THE    PICTURESQUE    ANNUAL 
For  1842$ 

Embracing  at  least  TWENTY  finely  executed  Views  of  Paris. 

The  volume  for  this  year  will  be  edited  by  Mrs.  GORE, 
and  will  exceed  in  beauty  the  former  volumes  of  this  series. 
Its  size  will  be  the  same,  so  as  to  correspond  with  the  vo- 
lumes of  former  years. 


LEA  &  BLANCHARD,  Philadelphia,  are  the 
American  publishers  of  these  four  favourite  LONDON 
ANNUALS,  which  will  be  for  sale  by  the  various  book- 
sellers in  all  October. 

Though  much  improved  and  beautified,  the  price 
will  not  be  enhanced  over  that  of  former  years. 


LEA  &  BLANCHARD  beg  to  inform  the  public 
that  they  have  at  press 

SOUVENIRS    OF    OTHER    DAYS; 

Written  by  a  distinguished  Lady  of  Virginia. 

This  work  will  be  brought  out  in  a  style  of  jjreat  bcautj,  and  form 
a  volume  suitable  to  the  intelligent  and  refined  taste  of  the  country. 

ALSO, 

THE    PORCELAIN   TOWER,' 

OR 

NINE  STORIES  OF  CHINA. 

Compiled  from  Original  Sources 
BY  "T.  T.  T." 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS. 
In  One  Volume. 

S  T  U  R  M  E  R, 
A   TALE   OF   MESMERISM,    &c. 

Br  ISABELLA  F.  ROMER. 

In  Two  Volumes. 

RICHARD  SAVAGE, 

A    ROMANCE    OF    REAL    LIFE, 
With  Illustrations  by  Cruikshank. 

FRANK    HEARTWELL, 

OR 

FIFTY  YEARS  AGO; 
With  Illustrations  by  Cruikshank. 

STANLEY    THORN, 

By  the  author  of  "VALENTINE  Vox"  and  "Sr.  GEORGE  JULIAN;" 
With  Illustrations  by  CruiksJiank. 

THE  HOME  OF  SHAKSPEARE; 
By  the  author  of  "SHAKSPEARE  AND  HIS  FRIENDS." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


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